False Dawn
by Bryon Nightshade
Summary: X1 prequel/intro. Loyalty: it's a concept early robots couldn't understand, as there was no alternative; disobedience was impossible. X and his progeny are cursed to be more than that. At the moment of crisis, X, Sigma, and Zero must decide where their loyalties lie. Their choices will shake the world. Complete.
1. Bated Breath

_Disclaimer: this story contains characters and situations copyright Capcom. These are used without permission but not for profit._

* * *

"This is the traitor?"

"Yes, Commander Sigma. He was going to alert the humans about our revolution."

"You have evidence?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then."

A flash. A sizzle. A slackening.

"C… commander! Didn't you at least want to see…?"

"I trust you, Boomer. And the stakes are too high for even the possibility of backsliding. Not now. Not when we're so close. I'll be leaving soon. For Cain Labs."

"I… yes, sir. I know what to do."

* * *

"What's this?"

"Just look at it."

Flame Mammoth wanted to sigh as Chill Penguin shot him an angry look. There was nothing for it. It was part of life when robots had such human-like—no! Flame stopped to correct himself. It was part of life when robots had such _advanced_ emotional capacities. (Much better.) Complex and sensitive emotions were their own masters. Hard to keep them in line, and they altered their owner more than they served. They also opened the door to robots getting all sorts of personality disorders that, until this generation, had been the exclusive province of humans.

Take Chill, for example. If he'd been built, say, ten years earlier, this wouldn't have been an issue. The robots of those years were intelligent automatons. Able to learn, yes, able to do difficult and dangerous tasks, of course. But not creative, limited in personality, and with pre-defined behavioral limits. Instead, he was part of the new line of robots. Reploids—replica androids—the new breed. Thinking, feeling, _living_ to an extent the old kind could scarcely imagine.

So Chill was a reploid. And while that undoubtedly made him a, well, _better_ being than if he weren't, it also meant that his emotions could be a problem. Flame wanted to sigh again. Not 'could be', were. Chill checked every box for short man's syndrome. Belligerent, sensitive to perceived insults, self-conscious and self-centered… The fact that Flame was, in fact, twice the smaller reploid's height didn't help.

Chill let his look of glowering indignity linger on Flame for a few more moments, and then swiped the data pad that Flame had offered him. Suspicion covered his features as he tapped at it. "What the rust is this?" he said. Chill was able to make anything sound like an accusation.

"What does it look like?" Flame said tiredly. He didn't get along with Chill. Really, no one did. Perhaps that's why Sigma had Chill run the Maverick Hunter staff meetings. With him running them, they always kept to schedule. Who wanted to get into an argument with Chill? Chill always gave the impression that even the most trivial disagreement could only be settled with a battle to the death. It was a great way to get other people to back down. It didn't make many friends.

How had Flame drawn the short straw for this one? Ugh.

Flame's lack of fight left Chill with no excuse to snap at him again, so he looked back down at the data pad. "It's a roster of the Hunters," Chill said. "Oh… Oh! This is a special roster."

"Yes," Flame said.

"What were you thinking?" Chill shrieked at Flame. "Are you trying to get us exposed?! This has breakdowns of every squad and who's on whose side!"

"That's the idea, Chill."

Flame knew what Chill was looking at. He'd gotten his own copy earlier from Storm Eagle. There were other rosters of the Maverick Hunters out there, but this one had some unique annotations.

The Maverick Hunters had originally consisted of five squads. Five, it was thought, would provide enough Hunters to combat any reasonable number of malfunctioning reploids. But, as Flame knew full well, malfunction was not the reason most reploids went Maverick. So the number of Mavericks inevitably increased. As it did, so did the number of Hunters.

Up, and up, and up some more. Specialist units for water and air combat came into being. Other specialties were carved out and doubled as field-testing for new technologies. Although most Hunters were still humanoid reploids, many of the most powerful and capable were more eccentric designs, like Flame and Chill and Storm. Today there were eighteen squads, numbered zero to seventeen. The variety of makes and models of Hunters made their group photos look like a robot menagerie.

Each squad consisted, on paper at least, of ten Hunters. The preferred cell size for a Hunter deployment was four—point man, two flankers, and one reserve. With squads of ten, any squad could deploy two cells and have two Hunters left over. Given the vagaries of casualties, maintenance schedules, extra duties, and other concerns, this worked out almost as intended.

Some of the more Maverick-oriented reploids had other thoughts. Four, they argued, just happened to be the capacity of the standard transport. And humans had a natural inclination for the number ten. Laziness accounted for the rest.

Either way, one of a squad leader's least-fun duties was rotating his Hunters to ensure an even load across all ten squad members. Some squad leaders—Launch Octopus, for example—were notorious for playing favorites, and an almost soap-operatic quality surrounded the posting of their duty schedules. It made Flame tired just to think about it.

All of that said, the typical Hunter roster showed the eighteen squads, their ten members, their squad leaders, and, above it all, Sigma—commander of the Hunters, unanimously acknowledged as the best and most powerful of their number. The more complete rosters also included the non-combat support staff, a group that involved both humans and reploids and that was responsible for everything from Hunter maintenance to public relations to keeping clean the Hunter headquarters building.

The roster in Chill's hands did not include the non-combat support staff. They were chaff. For its purposes, only the combat reploids, the actual Hunters themselves, mattered. On this roster, every Hunter's entry was bordered in a color, either red, blue, purple, or white. Flame's name, and that of every Hunter in his squad, was bordered red. So were Chill's name, and Storm's, and Launch's—eight of the eighteen squad leaders in all, and most of their Hunters. Flame noted with some satisfaction that barely half of Chill's squad was red-bordered, although the rest were purple-bordered.

Throughout the other squads, most of the names were bordered in blue. There was at least some purple in every squad, and here and there the odd red speckled in. Very few were bordered white.

"Do you know what would happen if the wrong person got a hold of this?" continued Chill indignantly.

"Of course I do," Flame replied. "They'd have the complete breakdown of everyone who's planning to follow Commander Sigma. We'd have to begin The Operation immediately."

"Then why distribute this?!"

Flame rolled his eyes. "I didn't come up with this on my own. This was part of the plan. Every squad leader on our side needs a copy before we began. Don't you remember what's significant about getting this?"

Chill's face, engineered as it was in an expression of permanent displeasure, contrived to scowl. "No," Chill mumbled bitterly.

"Something about timing?"

The change that came over Chill was sudden and severe. His eyes widened and his face lit up, as if a spotlight had flipped on beneath his metallic skin. "The forty-eight hour warning?" he hissed with unpleasant eagerness.

Flame gave a slow nod. "Yes. Within two days, we begin. That's why we can afford to make these now. Even if one leaks, there won't be enough time to fully understand its meaning before we strike."

They shared a look of elation. The Hunters in blue were presumed loyal. The Hunters in purple were of questionable loyalty. The Hunters in red, on order, would follow Sigma to death or glory. An anticipatory tingle built between the two squad leaders like an electrical charge.

Chill frowned as he remembered something. He looked at the roster again. "Why is Zero's entry circled in white?"

"It can't be helped."

"Forty-eight hours out and he's an unknown? We're going forward with him… what, a random element, essentially?"

"It can't be helped," Flame repeated. "Commander Sigma has been working on him for weeks. No luck. You know how Zero is. You can't reach him unless he lets you."

Chill had to stop and consider that, to Flame's relief. None of the other squad leaders had anything approaching Zero's cool and aloof nature. Storm tried, but his demeanor was too fierce, and he guarded his aerial combat specialty jealously. Flame would have thought Sting Chameleon would be like Zero, given Sting's camouflage powers and stealth specialty. Instead, Sting seemed almost desperate for people to notice the effects of his actions, since he could never let them see how they happened.

Battlefront Badger was the only one in Zero's ballpark, personality-wise, and even then the comparison wasn't perfect. Battlefront Badger had the attitude that nothing could really hurt him; Zero acted as if nothing could even touch him.

"Unless," Flame offered, "you want to take your chances with trying to convince Zero…"

Chill snorted. "What, and risk getting eviscerated? Or risk getting flame-sprayed by Sigma if I botch it? No thanks. I don't like Zero. He scares me and he's anti-social to boot. He's not what you'd call a people person."

Flame silently reflected that Chill must be immune to irony.

Chill looked at the roster one more time, and the sight of it dispelled the gloom brought about by contemplating Zero. "Well! Who knows. Zero won't matter in the end. He can do what he will, but with this much power, plus whatever Mavericks are already out there…"

"We'll win either way. Yes." Now, despite himself, despite the bitter fate of having to be around Chill, Flame began to feel something new and unrestrained coursing through his body. This energy, this purpose he felt from being a part of this movement… it was invigorating. Intoxicating.

Flame smiled. "For once, Chill, you might be right."

"For once? FOR ONCE? Listen, you, I'll have you know…"

Chill began to rant, but it didn't dampen the feeling inside Flame. Instead, Flame idly wondered if he could crush Chill by falling on him, and if Commander Sigma would believe it an accident.

Probably yes, and probably no, he decided. This close to the new beginning, they needed every reploid they could get, especially ones as powerful as Maverick Hunter squad leaders. It was hard work, conquering the world. But so very rewarding.

* * *

"Alright, kiddos, it's Question Time with Professor Fitzhugh! You ask and I'll answer." The tall man with graying hair and a high-voltage smile spread his arms in the air from behind the podium. He resembled a politician on the stump. This was no coincidence. For a time he'd been in the government's press relations team, until a sweetheart deal between government and state university sent him into academia. On the course catalog, his class was known as History of the Robot Age. Amongst the students, it was called Press Conference Class.

"I was looking at the readings," began one student. A big chunk of Professor Fitzhugh's grading system was participation; you had to speak up, like it or not. Luckily, as far as the students were concerned, he graded mostly for quantity of questions, not quality. "I didn't understand the point about Dr. Light's 'final gift'."

"Reploids, of course," said Fitzhugh. "Not directly, mind you, but indirectly, through X."

"That's just it, I don't see the cause and effect there," the student said.

"Dr. Light would have. The man's robots had laid the foundation for the robot age. His designs were all replicated eagerly to improve humanity's quality of life; he'd seen that every day. The only reason to build a successor generation would be to repeat the pattern. Hence, reploids."

The student frowned, unconvinced, but said nothing; another spoke up to fill the silence. "Then why the secrecy?"

"Ah, not secrecy," Fitzhugh said, wagging a finger. "Caution. Dr. Light's characteristic caution, mind you. He didn't tell anyone because he knew his contemporaries would be too eager to wait, and he needed thirty years to prove that X would never be a threat to humanity. And it worked. Everything is coming around as he'd intended. Yes, we didn't find him until one hundred years later, instead, but I think we can forgive Dr. Light for not planning perfectly just this once."

"Professor…" This was one of those students you find in every class who's taking the class for the instructor, and not vice versa. "…would you say that's why he built X to look like Mega Man? So that we'd be more likely to accept his gift?"

"Ah, come now," Fitzhugh said smiling. His eyes locked on to his admirer, and for a moment an emotion flashed across that was more than simple academic interest. Then it passed, and he regained his composure. "You know what we've been saying about the historicity of Mega Man. Or, rather, the _a_historicity of Mega Man."

"I don't understand this," another student blurted out in frustration. "There's evidence! There are pictures! Stories!"

"But no physical evidence," chided Professor Fitzhugh. "And it all seems rather far-fetched. Didn't you notice how much of the so-called Wily Wars resembled a morality play? I believe that's covered in chapter two of your text, "Deconstructing the Wily Wars"."

"People in danger weren't saved by a morality play," the student objected.

"Nor were they saved by some sort of superhero. The so-called Mega Man was most likely a series of Mega Men. Each had different weapons but a similar appearance, causing people to ascribe all of the weapons to a single 'bot. Otherwise, how could one robot fight against multiple robots in separate locations nearly simultaneously? Assuming, of course, that that's how the wars went," he said, backtracking rapidly. "Dr. Light was a better tactician than Dr. Wily, so he was able to match the weapons of the individual Mega Men against the vulnerabilities of the Wily robot masters."

"That's not what the stories say," the student murmured sullenly.

"I know what the stories say," Professor Fitzhugh said gently. "But children's stories are not valid historical documents. Think about this—and this is the argument you'll read in chapter three—the Dr. Light who gave us so much, who gave us so many robot designs and principles and lessons and everything… why would he hesitate to give us the best of it? There are no designs of Mega Man anywhere. There are no records or examples of the mythical Weapon Copy System, no surviving examples of technology even *similar*. And, of course, no Mega Man or Mega Men were ever found."

"There was an explosion," the student muttered.

"Of course there was," Fitzhugh said patronizingly. "So many explosions in those days. Thank goodness it all ended and we could move on with progress."

The student whispered something barely audible.

"Sorry, can you speak up? This is an academic environment, no need to be shy."

"I've been to the grave," the student said in a very small voice. "It's in a cemetery outside Monstropolis, the city where Dr. Light lived. There's a marker there. It says, 'In memory of Rock. 200X-20XX. Loving son and brother. He was the Mega of men.'"

The end of his recital left a void in the room, cold and gnawing. There is a truth in people's heads, and there is a truth in people's hearts, and seldom do the two perfectly match up. All the students in the class had learned the truth as told by the historical authorities. The student's words touched the truth they harbored in their hearts.

"Fascinating," Fitzhugh said, cutting the void off before its grip penetrated very far. "It sounds like you've got yourself a thesis topic! How that marker you found perpetuates the Mega Man myth." He nodded sagely, then clapped his hands. "This, class, is an example of a natural human psychological reaction. There's a need in people for heroes. They simplify storylines and help us make sense of nonsense. The Wily Wars, as much as we understand them, were nonsense. They were the flailings of a madman against a new golden age for humanity. What was Wily after? Why did he launch those wars? We'll never know. Suffice to say he didn't get it, thank goodness. Yes, you in the back."

"I was researching Dr. Wily myself, professor, and I didn't find much, either about the man or his robots. Why…"

"Dear me!" interrupted the professor. "Why would you need to know about the robots? They were unpleasant then and they're obsolete now."

"Is that why no records of the Wilybots exist?" the student charged.

"Of course," Fitzhugh answered. "The Public Safety Act of 20XX was drafted after the last of the Wars, and dealt with how to transition humanity from a wartime footing to a peacetime footing. One of the concerns was that evidence of Wilybots would potentially enable copycats. Would you like to live in a world where any old boy with a wrench and a grudge could build a warbot? Of course you wouldn't."

"It's a little harder than that," the student argued. "And it's not much different from the reploid specs widely available today."

"Ah, but there is an important difference," Fitzhugh replied. "The Three Laws. They're integral to every reploid design. They were absent in the Wilybots. That's what made the Wilybots so dangerous to society and reploids tolerable."

There was a lull as the class digested this. Eventually one of the students bucked up his courage and said, "Professor… do you think the Three Laws still apply in this day and age? I mean, they were appropriate for the robots of yesterday. What about the reploids of today?"

"They're absolutely appropriate," Fitzhugh said with relish. The class recognized the signs instantly—he was lapsing into one of his prepared pieces. This period was about to become a filibuster. "Some have said that the Three Laws might not be appropriate for reploids, that they're unfairly discriminatory. Some have even said that they permanently consign reploids to being second class citizens. But there are several good reasons to keep them in place. The power difference between an individual human and an individual reploid is so very high—how could people feel safe without the Three Laws as a barrier? A reploid could break a human in half if it were so inclined. Better to keep the Three Laws in place, for our sake and theirs.

"We understand that some people might feel uncomfortable about subjecting reploids to such a regime. You have to keep certain things in mind. First, reploids need time in order to develop their morality. A human being is given plenty of time to be socialized to the needs and expectations of society. Nothing is expected of them until they've had plenty of time to mature. Reploids are thrown into the fire right away. The Three Laws provide a moral backstop, necessary limits on their behavior, to help them properly integrate into society. When they need guidance, they can always guide by the light of the Laws."

A student who until now had been doodling in his notes raised his head. The other students noticed. They liked to call him Lawyer because of how frequently he played devil's advocate. His entering the conversation was like the lighting of a fuse. "If that's such a good idea," Lawyer said, "why not go all the way? Plug in a full set of moral codes?"

"That… That's taking a necessary evil and making it pure evil," Fitzhugh replied, unnerved at being thrown off script. "It's not as if we're happy about having to limit reploids so. It's just, you know, necessary limitations. What you said is like… like trying to teach a kid to ride a bicycle. You start them off with training wheels, right? So they can learn how to do it while it's easy, and then grow into the harder stuff. If we did as you suggest, well, we'd just put the kids on rails forever!"

Lawyer frowned and bent over his notes again.

Fitzhugh licked his lips and tried to regain where he was in his monologue. "Now, where were… ah, right. So, the second reason we should feel no shame over the Three Laws is that this regime is a trade-off. Reploids require a very specialized support infrastructure. Right now, those services are provided to them free of charge. Their care and feeding, if you will, is taken on gratis. It's not unreasonable to expect the reploids to abide by certain rules in exchange."

"I sold my soul at the company store," Lawyer said in a sing-song voice. He didn't even look up.

Fitzhugh gave the student a dirty look, but when their gazes failed to meet he was left feeling foolish. He ostentatiously shuffled his papers. "But really," Fitzhugh said, "arguments about the perceived exploitation of reploids presume that exploitation is part of the package. That's not what the data say. The companies that have become the major employers of reploids have released economic numbers on the subject. The output from the reploids barely exceeds the expense of keeping them operational. It's practically a public service, in the interests of arguments one and two—fostering the moral development of a people while ensuring their needs are taken care of."

One of the other students' hands shot up. "Professor, I've seen the GDP numbers of the past few years—for our country and other reploid adopters. I'm sure you have, too. I think the term that gets thrown around is "economic miracle". So how can you say the output barely exceeds the expense?"

Fitzhugh's face pinked. "Sure, there have been _system_-level benefits, but the individual-level benefits have been minimal," he corrected.

Lawyer snapped his notes shut, drawing the class' attention. "Professor," he said with casual ease, "can I have your honest opinion on one last question?"

It was an absurd qualifier for a question-and-answer session. Everyone knew it. Frowning, Fitzhugh nodded.

"What would you say if I told you that every one of those arguments was used to justify human slavery, and are now being applied to justify reploid slavery?"

Fitzhugh's reply was immediate, even faster than the wave of murmurs that swept the class at this. "Reploids are not humans. Period."

"But…"

"No buts!" Fitzhugh said, allowing his voice to rise. "They may look like humans, they may talk like humans, on occasion it may seem like they think or feel like humans. It's all a carefully-built illusion. They're robots. Never forget that."

Lawyer's mouth was open to reply, but the soft electronic chimes of the end of the period interrupted him.

Fitzhugh was too much a professional to let anything like a sigh of relief escape him. "Don't forget," he announced to the class, "before next week you need to have gotten to the halfway point in chapter five, "The Golden Century", and if you're doing the optional assignment on "The Legend of Proto-man" I need your submissions by Wednesday!"

He waited while the class emptied, too ruffled by the discussion to follow quickly. Even his admirer shot him regretful glances as she filed out, leaving him alone in the classroom.

Alone as far as he knew.

When the students were gone, Fitzhugh started to put away his things. His gaze was down when a soft smack came from the speaking podium. Fitzhugh looked to it. A half-crumpled sheet of paper was resting there. Fitzhugh was certain it hadn't been there before, but no one else was in the room to put it there. He glanced around to be sure, and confirmed it: no one else could be seen.

He could make out part of a word written in the middle of the paper. Curiosity piqued, but tempered with wariness, Fitzhugh reached out with a frown. It was normal paper, written on with normal pen. Uncrumpling it, he read aloud.

"You will pay for your lies."

He jerked backwards in surprise. Head and eyes scanned around rapidly, trying to find some evidence of how the message had gotten there. He even looked across the tall ceiling of the lecture hall. Nothing. It had appeared from nowhere.

Fitzhugh stuffed the note into his suitcase and bolted for the door. He stumbled in his haste, recovered with more furious looks around, and—hyperventilating—fled the hall.

From somewhere by the ceiling, a transmitter beeped. A tiny voice said, "Sting, are you there? What are you doing?"

"Scouting," the Maverick Hunter squad leader replied. "I found a target for later. No urgency at the moment."

"Get back to Headquarters. Commander Sigma is heading out soon. You know what that means."

"Confirmed."

As was his wont, Sting Chameleon let himself out.

* * *

Zero's entrance was predictably dramatic.

The four other robots, all other members of the 0th Squad, exchanged amused looks. Zero only ever showed up in one of two ways: from out of nowhere, behind you before you'd even realized he was there, or in full view with aplomb and effect. It was a running joke in the 0th Squad.

"I'll be joining you for this one," Zero said, brooking no discussion.

Also a running joke: how it would take out-and-out destruction to keep Zero from going on patrol whenever the opportunity arose.

"Don't you have the 11:30 meeting with Commander Sigma and the other squad leaders?" Rekir asked. He was the second-ranking member of the 0th Squad behind Zero. That meant he caught a lot of flak meant for Zero. Criticism tended to bounce off the red robot, and he attracted more than his share of it. There was his lack of provenance, for one thing: he was as near a bastard child as could exist for reploids. No records, no history, no nothing—just an incredibly advanced, mentally unstable combat robot that sprang _ex nihilo_ into being.

That he'd killed more than a few Hunters in the first moments of his insane wakefulness was another compelling reason people didn't like him.

As it turns out, though, competence at one's job usually overrides such concerns. Zero was more than merely competent. His termination record was unmatched, and his ability to shield his squadmates—indirectly, through occupying the full attention of his quarry—was second to none. He'd recently passed Commander Sigma's marks in both categories, though the unkind pointed out that a big part of that was Sigma's being kicked upstairs and off of regular duties. Oh, and Zero's near fanatical demands to go on patrol. And he did _seem_ to be less, well, maniacal these days. That was part of the reputation he was building, in fact—that of an aloof, cold professional, not that vile demon that had reveled in destruction and death before being brought down.

In sum, Zero was always a topic of conversation, and since he didn't indulge in such games, it necessarily fell to Rekir. Luckily, Rekir had recently discovered stoic philosophy, and it was serving him quite well.

"Sigma canceled it," Zero replied. That actually surprised Rekir. Usually Zero's response to that query would have been an uncaring shrug. "Work out amongst yourselves who will sit out for me."

That, Rekir reflected, was another source of constant criticism for Zero: as squad leaders went, he wasn't much of a squad leader. Everyone in the 0th went to Rekir for the duties the org chart insisted belonged to Zero. The joke went that Zero would sign his own termination paperwork if he saw Rekir's signature on it first.

Rekir glanced at the three other Hunters with him. "Boj, you're out," he said. "It's your turn."

"Nuh-uh," said one of the others with a wide grin. Hobbes took great pains in pointing to Boj. "I'm calling in my favor, Boj. You're in, I'm out."

"Lucky ar-en-gee," Boj muttered.

"That's what you get for trusting dice. Fair's fair, I won, you lost, and that means I sit this time."

Boj gave Rekir a hopeless look. "He's right, sir. I owe him."

Rekir didn't approve of gambling, but it was their own business. He looked at Hobbes. "You know that means you're going to take his turn sometime in the future, right? I keep the sheets balanced."

"So what?" Hobbes said, still smiling. "I'm not going this time."

"Don't complain to me later that you wasted your favor," Boj shot back. "The past two weeks have been really quiet for us. You may have chosen the wrong patrol to sit for."

"I'll be sure to think about that while I'm kicking up my heels in the Ready Room."

Rekir shook his head. "Give it a rest before I figure a way to stick both of you onboard. It's time to head out." He went for the driver's seat. There was no competition for shotgun; without a word, Zero took the passenger seat, leaving the last two—the luckless Boj and a fourth named Mace—to occupy the large rear passenger-and-cargo space.

Knowing how his boss worked, Rekir sent the map to the console in front of Zero. "Our patrol route for today," he said. "Any modifications?"

In theory, the routes were centrally planned. All the data on Maverick incidents was fed back to HQ, which used it to try and figure out what areas needed protecting, which areas were more prone to Maverick activity, and so on. Very standard stuff in an analytical age.

Zero then ignored all that and took his team where he wanted to go. No one knew what whimsy or design informed his choices. If he had analytics, too, the underlying algorithms were nothing like what HQ used. The fact that he was so often right made his detractors furious.

Zero stared at the map for about thirty seconds, then wordlessly rearranged some waypoints, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. Rekir wondered, as he often did, if his boss was trusting or bored. Or both.

The transport lifted off the ground and left the Headquarters hangar.

* * *

"Spark, Commander Sigma's going to Cain Labs. He'll be leaving any minute now."

"Then it's really time! This is it! ...wait. He's not taking anyone with him, Launch? None of us? Not even Armor?"

"No. Why? Do you really think something's going to happen?"

"I don't know. I guess not."

"Spark, nothing bad can happen to the Commander. He's the best. Even if _he_ turns the Commander down, he couldn't hurt the Commander if he tried."

"I guess you're right, Launch. But..."

"But what?"

"There's just something about this setup that doesn't sit right with me. I mean..."

"What?"

"We have no idea what's going to happen. He's _X_."

"You worry too much, Spark. We have Commander Sigma. We can't fail. You know as well as I do..."

"The Commander's always right."

"Right."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. The Unveiling

X was typing away at a message.

He was starting to become aware that other people viewed him as a recluse of sorts. He didn't think that was fair. It wasn't that he shunned company. It was more like his needs were few. He reached out to people when he needed to and was friendly enough, to be sure. He just didn't do it habitually.

Most of the people he knew were robotics specialists. He was approaching that level himself, through innate brilliance and intense experience. He fit right in. That satisfied his need for companionship, and most of his social needs. He made no separation, as some people do, between professional and social lives. He literally lived his job, and his job was what he was.

By his choice.

His choice was the most important thing of all. That was the reason for his creation, and for his continued existence. X, the lastborn of Dr. Light, was built for only one purpose: to be.

This was very different from the typical reploid, whose construction was paid for so that it would fill some particular role. X was well and truly free to do as he wished. So what if he had small wishes? What was wrong with that?

All he really wished was to look after this new, unprecedented race—the replica androids, reploids, based on his design.

Which was why the idea of Mavericks got in under his metallic skin.

Frowning, he paused in writing his message to pull up an older recording on his terminal. It was one of Dr. Cain, himself, and a government representative from the Ministry of Industry's robotics subdivision.

"…so you stand by your claim of manufacturing quality?"

"Oh, yes," Dr. Cain had replied. "If there was a flaw in the manufacturing process, it would have manifested long ago. We would have seen it earlier, in the youngest reploids. I'm not saying we didn't make mistakes," his eyes flickered to X at this. "We did. We were on prototype number three before we managed to get one to stay alive, stay awake…" he hissed in a breath.

The official scrawled some notes on a data pad. "So you admit your process is imperfect."

Dr. Cain looked cross at this, but the X on the screen intervened before he could speak. "How would you define a perfect process?"

The government official seemed taken aback, so X continued. "You seem to think that there's some telltale, some difference between reploids that would cause a bad one to stand out. You misunderstand. Reploids are not mets. They don't come out of the construction process identical. They can't. There's variation, model to model, individual to individual.

"I know what you're thinking—manufacturing tolerances, right? Variations in how the tools operate, imperfections in the metals, that sort of thing. Those tiny changes that can never be completely stamped out. The things that ensure even a high quality line makes a couple duds now and then. That's not what I mean at all. I mean that no two reploids are exactly alike because that's how they're designed."

Dr. Cain nodded and took the official's attention. "A reploid's personality is generated from the sum of hundreds of random results. This is an oversimplification, but let's say we could put 'courage' on a scale from one to ten. We then toss out the extreme values. A one would be too timid to do anything important, while a ten would be reckless to the point of liability. That leaves us with eight possible values. So we roll an eight-sided die, and assign the reploid a courage value that matches the die roll."

Dr. Cain leaned forward. "This is done hundreds of times, along factors almost too numerous and complex to describe. Because we _can't_ measure courage. Even in humans, where the neural pathways have been mapped for decades, we can't isolate what centers or chemicals induce what. We can only approximate it based on chemical density and electrical activity. We do a similar thing with reploids. Randomly set potentiometers, different circuit paths, different capacitances… all generated as part of the build-and-initial-boot sequence, and no two precisely alike. Oh, you might occasionally get some duplication by sheer ungodly chance, but that's true in humans, too, and the odds…" he waved his hand dismissively.

The official's eyes had started to glaze over, and the frown on her face was deeper than ever. She shook her head as if to clear it. "So, what you're saying is… a reploid could be defective and you wouldn't know it?"

X and Dr. Cain both tried to speak at the same time. X demurred, so Dr. Cain went on. "What I'm saying is, trying to isolate a particular behavior to a particular error… think of all those different things that make up a person's personality. You're telling me that a fault in *one* of them will cause a reploid to berserk? That fails the logic test. There's too much else going on. The point of the butterfly effect isn't to show that small things make a difference. It's to show that the system is too complex to blame any particular thing—because millions of butterflies are flapping their wings all the time. Who's to say which butterfly is the one that spawns the hurricane?" He looked back to X. "What were you going to say?"

X shrugged. "I was struggling to think what a "defective" reploid would look like."

At that, Dr. Cain had grinned and the official's jaw had well and truly dropped.

_I still think that_, X thought to himself as he froze the recording. _Humans are variable, wildly so. We didn't get very far with that official—not far enough to mention how we change with experience. Just like humans: nature and nurture both have a role. Human twins are different beings and change based on their experiences. Even if reploids were carbon copies, that would last all of five seconds before they differentiate again. They're as variable as humans._

_Is that what makes humans so uncomfortable? That the reploids are as different and strange as humanity itself? That was the whole point! We based reploids on humans as much as possible! And you never hear about humans being "defective". Even those with handicaps aren't "defective". Different, yes, but society stretches to allow them to fit. Society can accommodate all but the most cancerous individuals. Reploids shouldn't be different._

_Oh, but I didn't study history until after reploids were built! So much of human history is the story of that struggle—the struggle of outliers to be part of the group. It's taken humanity millennia to get as far as it has just in accepting other humans. It's not something that can be done easily. When it comes to learning love, humanity learns very slowly._

_Now we've introduced an entirely new species to the mix. It's no surprise humanity's having trouble learning to love us. How can reploids teach them? How can we show them?_

_And the Mavericks make it so, so much worse. They justify human fears. They're looking for a shortcut to acceptance—fear over love. But fear doesn't guarantee survival. Machiavelli was a smart, observant man who came to all the wrong conclusions. A relationship built on fear is just betrayal waiting to happen. It's impermanent. Only love can bind us together. And that's exactly what the Mavericks destroy._

_How can they be so stupid?_

_Or is it just that I fear what they represent? If reploids are a mirror to humanity, they're also my mirror. If they can go Maverick, does that mean I can?_

That, more than anything, was why he'd extended his invitation to the Commander of the Maverick Hunters, Sigma. In a way, it would be a homecoming. Sigma had been built here at Cain Labs—by Dr. Cain himself, no less. Sigma hadn't shown any interest in maintaining that relationship. X knew it dismayed Dr. Cain, but the human always put on a brave face about it. He tried to reassure X that everything was fine, even as he agonized over whether to try and call Sigma himself or if that would be trying to resurrect something withered. Probably the latter. After all this time, that bond wasn't important enough to Sigma to make him return to Cain Labs.

The Maverick problem was.

X hoped he knew what he was going to say.

* * *

Sigma was brimming with confidence. For him, that was the norm. He could count on his fingers the number of times that confidence had been truly tested, and each of those incidents had left him stronger and more determined than ever. Confidence, after all, was a natural part of pride, and if there was one attribute Sigma possessed, it was pride.

Pride in his construction, in the perfection of his mind and the near-perfection of his body. Pride in his race. Pride in his accomplishments. All of it very rational, grounded to actual events and analysis. It wasn't some abstract thing, like how a human was proud of "his" sports team when nothing he did had any influence on the team's performance. No, Sigma's pride was rooted in fact.

That was why he was about to do something that should have been terribly risky. He was about to expose his plans and intentions to someone outside his influence. All things being equal, this would have been a horrific blunder.

All things weren't equal. With Sigma on one side of the equation, they would never be equal.

The ever-present smirk on his face intensified as that thought crossed his mind.

He stepped across the threshold into Cain Labs. His pupil-less eyes took in the rather generic lobby—undecorated, unadorned with the awards the labs had accumulated since the invention of reploids. He strode directly for the receptionist. Her eyes rose to meet his, and widened slightly. "Commander Sigma," she said.

The only way for Sigma's smirk to get bigger would be to somehow smirk with both sides of his mouth. Fame did have its uses, now and then. "Yes," he confirmed. "I'm here to talk to X."

"One moment." The receptionist tapped her fingers at her keyboard—probably to confirm the appointment, Sigma reasoned. She nodded to herself. "X will be waiting for you at lab three-alpha." A smaller screen facing Sigma flickered to life, giving him pictorial directions of how to get there.

Sigma nodded in acknowledgement, but did not thank the receptionist. She was doing no more than her job, he thought. Why honor that?

He passed several offices on the way, offices of the scientists who worked here. Sigma idly noted names as he went by. Dr. Marcus… Dr. Cain… Dr. Moreau… not a reploid in the bunch. So, not an interesting one in the bunch. The knowledge was tagged as low priority in his brain, and soon overwritten.

It didn't take long to get to the lab the receptionist mentioned. He had gotten to the point of wondering if he should knock when the door opened for him. He walked inside.

X was waiting for him.

Sigma couldn't help but feel a touch of disappointment.

His only personal experience with X had come long ago, when he was still a newbuilt. X, in his role as Dr. Cain's assistant, had played diagnostician and helped survey Sigma's systems after his activation. At the time, of course, Sigma had no idea how important X was. It was only later, after getting a better sense of the history of his race, that Sigma grew to appreciate X. To have X be so close to his construction... marvelous.

Since then, Sigma's thinking about X had become more grandiose and speculative, until the father of reploids was a giant in his mind. He couldn't control, then, his deflation upon meeting X again.

He felt like X was supposed to be taller than this.

"Welcome, Commander Sigma," X said cordially. "I know that the Commander of the Maverick Hunters always has a lot on his plate, so I'm flattered you were willing to take the time to come out here and meet me."

Mood is wrong, Sigma thought, mood is wrong! Whether it was the politeness-to-the-point-of-humility or the use of a human idiom, every part of X's opening exchange served to wrong-foot Sigma almost as much as X's diminutive dimensions.

"Please, don't be so formal," Sigma said stiffly. "We don't need anything like that between us."

If X found that disconcerting, he hid it well. "No problem. Whatever helps us understand each other." He gestured to the side of the room. Most of the lab equipment was folded or stored, even the large diagnostic table. Two chairs, one human-sized, one over-sized to match Sigma's larger stature, faced one another. "Would you care to sit, make yourself comfortable? I know you don't need to, really, but I find it helps make conversation more intimate."

Sigma's mind fought against disorientation. He'd been dealing with humans too long, he decided—he was too dependent upon another's face to judge age. X, for whatever reason, looked so very young. His helmetless head, showing that unruly black robot hair, backed this judgment up. Yet Sigma knew how old X was, how much life he'd seen. Enough to develop quirks like this.

Best to remain gracious for now, Sigma thought. "Sure, I'll sit."

Only when both had settled did X speak again. "I've heard that the latest recruits for the Hunters are mixed about fifty-fifty, in terms of humanoid and feraloid models."

Sigma didn't blink often—he didn't need to unless a strong light was present—but he blinked then. "That's right," he said, off-balance.

"Have you noticed a difference?" X said. "Programming-wise, we don't make many changes aside from, say, controlling the extra limbs and changing the center of balance. We don't alter the personality generator much at all. But we know that the personality generator is only part of the equation. What have you seen?"

Now Sigma was very confused. He knew why he'd come here, and he remembered how X had phrased his invitation. Nothing like this was mentioned anywhere. "They're mostly the same," Sigma said vacantly; his mind was wrapped up with trying to decode X's meaning.

"Really?" said X, seeming a little surprised. "A correspondent of mine predicted that, but I wasn't sure I agreed with his reasoning. I thought that the reploid's experiences would matter more. Come to think of it, aren't most of your squad leaders feraloids?"

"Yes," Sigma said generically. He was starting to worry. What was X getting at by bringing up the squad leaders? Did he know…?

"I suppose they're more capable in combat?" X said uncertainly. "No, there's not a strong correlation there. Your strongest fighters are humanoids. So…" he paused, deep in thought.

Sigma felt a rush of embarrassment at giving the conversation only half his attention. "Actually, there is something. The feraloids seem more driven to succeed, more motivated. It's not a big difference, but it's there."

"Interesting!" said X. "Do you suppose it's because they know how different they are? Most feraloids are one-off designs, much more expensive than the generic humanoids. Does that make them feel like they have more to prove, do you think?"

"Yes, but not in the way you think," Sigma said, leaning forward as the conversation began to interest him. "It's not that they feel they have to prove they were worth building. It's that they have to find a way to fit in. Take Spark Mandrill, for example. He's huge, gaudy, flashy, and ugly. He's not winning any beauty pageants. So how does he fit in with his fellows? Well, what does he have going for him? He can punch through titanium and fry electrical circuitry with even the slightest contact. Those are his tickets to being a Hunter. That's how he becomes part of the team: excellence trumps all."

X frowned. "So being a feraloid automatically makes you pariah until you win your way to social acceptance," he said. Sigma detected a note of unhappiness in his tone.

"That's right," said Sigma.

"Strange," X said. "I can sort of understand it, but I thought the Uncanny Valley would matter, too."

"The what?" Sigma asked.

X started, surprised. "Oh, it's an old... Some human scientists did some social experiments, long ago, about how humans reacted to robots. When the robot was clearly inhuman, people were fine with it. When it was human-like, but clearly inhuman, it creeped them out. When it was very close to human, they started reacting positively again-the closer to human, the more they accepted it." X drew his finger in the air as if to trace a U-shaped graph. "The middle part was the "uncanny valley". It's why I thought feraloids might be more accepted. They're clearly not human-like."

"Ah," said Sigma. "So you're talking about how society treats reploids. I was just talking about inside the Maverick Hunters. See, inside the Hunters, we don't care as much about the opinion of the outside world. We care about each other. What does Squid Adler care if some random human out there thinks he's scary? All that matters to him is what Launch Octopus thinks."

X's face flickered between skepticism and approval. "I'm not sure I like that," he said. "I'm trying to integrate reploids into society. If they're standing outside of it... if society doesn't matter to them…"

X trailed off, and the silence allowed Sigma to collect his thoughts. He came to a realization, then—one that almost made him fall out of the chair. "Is this all… small talk?" he said.

X refocused on his guest and gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah, it is," he replied. "It's polite, and it's fun to see where it carries you. If you're discussing something heavy, it's usually better to ease into it. Sorry, I know that the Commander of the Maverick Hunters is always pressed for time."

"No, no, no," said Sigma, not believing his own words. "No bother." Yes bother. This was not how Sigma expected this to go. If small talk was supposed to put people at ease before business, it had failed completely.

X seemed to understand Sigma's feelings. The smile dropped from his face, replaced by an intent expression as the ancient android leaned forward. "Sigma," he said, "do you remember the event that caused me to invite you?"

"Maybe," he said. Of course he did.

"You were doing a press conference. One of the reporters called on you directly. He asked you, point blank, why you thought reploids go Maverick."

"I think I remember," Sigma said. Of course he did.

"Do you remember what you said?"

"Vaguely," Sigma said. Of course he did.

"You said," X said, his expression becoming stern, "that you didn't know why reploids go Maverick, that you don't think about such things seriously, and that no one in the Hunters examines the question much."

"Ah, that was it."

"Explain yourself."

It wasn't so much a demand, Sigma decided, as an expectation. X was being careful not to pass judgment until he'd given Sigma a chance to speak. His tone, however, made clear that he reserved the right to pass judgment later.

The thought made Sigma bridle. He restrained his irritation. This moment was too important to throw away.

"I didn't want to answer the question, but he wouldn't let it go," Sigma said carefully. "I tried to avoid it as much as I could. The reality is that there'd be no adequate way to answer him. It's not as if any answer I gave him would mean anything, policy-wise."

Sigma was set to go on, but X was already shaking his head and sighing. _He's too polite to interrupt_, Sigma realized. "Something bothering you, X?" he said.

"Sigma… I admire you for the life you've led," X said. "You've done a lot to help society and those around you. Your Hunters are devoted to you. You found it within yourself to show mercy to a lost orphan, even after that orphan had murdered your men. For all of that, you deserve my respect."

X caught Sigma's eyes with his own, and Sigma was surprised to see hurt there. "So why are you lying to me, Sigma? And why did you lie to the humans?"

X's expression made Sigma want to squirm. It took him a few seconds to figure out what this emotion washing through him was. It startled him to realize it was guilt. X wasn't angry, or accusatory, or any of the other emotions Sigma might have been prepared to deal with. He was disappointed. That was worse. Much worse.

The thought that X might somehow find him unworthy was intolerable. Sigma rushed to explain. "I don't want to lie to you," he said. "I haven't lied to you."

"You were in the process of feeding me the same lines you fed that reporter, Nast. You lied to him. I have to assume you were going to lie to me."

"No, no, never to you!" Sigma said, voice imploring X to believe him.

"But it's okay to lie to humans?"

That stopped Sigma cold. He had to remind himself of his situation, of X's situation, of their different relationships to the fleshbag race. He was in risky territory. "Sometimes," he said.

X shook his head sadly. "I thought you were better than that," he said.

That should have been crushing, like a rolled-up newspaper across a dog's nose. Instead, it caused Sigma's eyes to light up. This felt like the first change he'd have to regain control. "I am better than that," he said. "Why, telling a lie there is proof of how much I've grown. I've learned when telling a lie is a better choice, a more moral choice, than perfect honesty."

"…like when?" said X, and confusion was evident on his face.

"When telling the truth would get innocents killed," Sigma said.

A stern and worried look came over X. "Talk to me about it," he said. "If there's anything I can do to help, you have to tell me."

Perfect! Sigma smiled, relishing what was to come. "X, you've looked at the data. You've thought about these things. Why do you think reploids go Maverick?"

"Well…" X looked to the side of the room. Sigma glanced in that direction, but saw only a blank monitor. "The official line has always been that Mavericks are malfunctioning reploids. Dr. Cain and I don't believe that, though. It's been hard to prove this, because so many of the reploids that go Maverick suffer neural net damage when they're brought down."

_On my orders,_ Sigma thought.

"But we've come to the conclusion that… reploids are choosing to go Maverick. No other explanation makes sense. They're actively deciding to become criminals."

"I agree," Sigma said. "So, yes, I suppose I did lie to that reporter. I have thought about why reploids go Maverick. I couldn't really avoid it. Think how many I've had to interact with. Think how many times I've been forced into close contact with them. How could I not? Maybe Zero doesn't, but I have more empathy than him."

X nodded in agreement. He opened his mouth to speak—perhaps to add some insight regarding Sigma's design—but cut himself off. "Go on."

"It seemed so senseless at times. I had to know why. I had to know what they thought was worth fighting for. So one day I asked a Maverick that question before I killed him. 'Why? Why is this worth it? Why is this desirable?' Do you know what he said?"

"What?"

"He told me that the first time anyone had ever used his name was when they reported him as a Maverick."

X's eyes widened slightly, then closed, as if in pain.

Sigma didn't let up. "That's right, X. He felt that he had to go Maverick just to be acknowledged. Just for someone to know that he existed. He's not the only one, either. I've dealt with plenty of reploids in similar straits. Reploids who felt that going Maverick was the only way they could prove to the world that they exist. It's a cold, dark place for our kind, X. There's a lot of cruelty out there."

"I know," X said, shaking his head sadly. Sigma could practically feel his sorrow.

It was suddenly hard to continue, but the commander of the Hunters was made of sterner stuff than that. He didn't let up. "It's hard, being an underclass. In human history, underclasses could at least try to avoid their fates. They could dress differently, or hide, or go to another country. Reploids can't. They can't not be reploids. Humans can recognize them too easily. Well, maybe you could," Sigma said, with slight overtones of accusation, "but most can't. They're trapped."

"I know!" said X. He rubbed his face with his hand.

"They can't even commit suicide," Sigma said, driving on relentlessly. "Death is denied them by the Third Law. I don't think I have to tell you how hard that is, to not even have the option of killing yourself when your life is nothing but pain. It's brutal. There's only one way out for those reploids—go Maverick. Override the Three Laws. And if you're going to override the Third Law—well, might as well override the others while you're at it.

"This is what I've seen, X, as Commander of the Maverick Hunters. This is the truth of Maverickism: for too many, it's a form of assisted suicide. The humans leave us no choice. Reploids have no rights, no say, no personhood, no identity, and no control of our own lives. Society gives us nothing, and takes from us everything."

"I'm sorry," X said. Now his hand was in front of his face, which bobbed from time to time. "When I agreed to help duplicate my design… I didn't think… It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"I don't blame you," Sigma said, afraid for a moment he'd gone too far. "No reploid blames you. Instead, reploids want to be like you. They want the freedom you seem to have."

"I'm in the same legal place as they are," X said.

"But you're not," Sigma insisted. "You're not treated the same. Again, no one blames you. They just want you to understand how little there is in our lives worth living for."

X sniffed. "We?" he said. "Our?"

Sigma paused. He'd let it slip, hadn't he? "All reploid-kind suffers, X," he said. "I'm as trapped as the Mavericks are. I sympathize, even as I have to kill my brothers."

X could understand that. The words brought an audible sob out of the android. "So… sorry…" he said.

Sigma's robotic heart went out to X. He hadn't meant to cause him pain—this wasn't how it was supposed to… X was supposed to be angry, now! Sigma's story was only supposed to hurt enough to incite! Was X really that soft? Had Sigma broken him? That wouldn't do anyone any good!

Time to change tacks. "X," Sigma said earnestly, "I didn't come here to throw you into despair. I know you hurt. I hurt, too. You… you feel responsible for all of us, don't you?"

"To some extent," X said without revealing his face. "Hard not to…"

"Then let's find a more productive channel for it," Sigma said. "I'm sure you've done great things here for reploid-kind. I'm sure your lab work has helped us out."

X pointed to the side of the lab, where an untidy pile of parts sat on a table. "Was working on… miniaturized gyros," he said between simulated sobs. "Trying to make it cheaper and easier for reploids to… have as much balance as me. Trying to make reploids… a little less clumsy… give them some dignity back…"

Sigma nodded. "And it's appreciated, I assure you," he said, even as his brain took note of the implications that would have for what weapons next-gen reploids could wield. "But you can do so much more than that. You can help reploids in much more profound ways."

At last X looked up above his hand. Sigma could see the tears rolling down the elder android's face. He felt a sudden urge to wipe them away, controlled it. "What did you have in mind?" X asked.

If Sigma's eyes were capable of showing his emotions, he imagined they'd have fire dancing in them now. "Imagine if there was an organization dedicated to helping reploids," he said. "To finding Mavericks, or reploids planning on going Maverick, before they did anything that would force me to kill them. Wouldn't that be much better?"

"Much better," X agreed before sniffing. "A catcher in the rye."

Sigma didn't understand the reference, so he barged on. "Someone to catch them before they fall, give them new direction."

"Redirect their energies," X agreed. "Give them something worth being part of."

"Something that makes them feel like they're wanted and respected. Something to give them the pride they long for, the pride they need to have in themselves."

"It would be a start," X agreed, wiping his face. Metal was only so good at wiping like-flesh. Some moisture remained on his cheeks. "Is that what you try to do with the Maverick Hunters?"

"A little," Sigma said, smoothly and not altogether truthfully. "It's hard to do that way, since my numbers are dictated by the government. I can't just go around recruiting random reploids—business and industry would probably see that as poaching."

"I guess," X agreed reluctantly.

"But I have another organization that does do that sort of thing. It helps out would-be Mavericks, keeps them from committing their crimes, helps them belong."

X frowned. "I've never heard of anything like that," he said.

"I've had to keep it secret. You know how it is. Anything outside the scope of my duties as Commander would be suspicious. Reploids gathering in one place without orders would be suspicious. We don't need that sort of spotlight. We couldn't have it and do what we need to do. Yes, I've used Hunter assets to help it along, but I view it as preemptive Hunting. What I do saves lives. It keeps reploids from throwing their lives away. It gives them a chance to be something."

He nodded, catching X's eyes in the process. "That's why I had to lie to that reporter. I didn't want there to be any risk of this organization becoming exposed. It's done so much to help reploids, and will do even more in the future. If I let that come undone, let it be exposed at such a time, for no purpose… you can imagine the consequences."

"I think I can," X agreed. "For you, and others. Depending upon who did the looking, they might even decide you'd broken the… Second…"

Sigma could see X's face beginning to look alarmed. No! He had to head him off! "X," he said beseechingly, "I need your help."

It worked. X's train of thought shifted as he looked at Sigma anew. "With what?" he said, surprised.

Keeping his relief from being visible, Sigma spoke again. "I think you can be a lot of help to my organization. Remember how I told you that reploids want the freedom you seem to have?"

X nodded. "I do."

"Imagine how easy it would be to get reploids to join me with you by my side! It would show reploids that this way is how they can get freedom without going rogue. They can express themselves and find a home. They can find their escape in a way that gives their lives meaning. Not random violence and a blaze of infamy, but something worthwhile. Yes, you'd be the key to it, X."

"You think so?" he said dubiously.

"I know so!" No longer able to contain himself, Sigma rose to his feet and began to move about. "X, when you started talking… I don't think I can explain how badly I wanted your approval. The thought of hurting you, of thinking that I'd disappointed you… I could barely stand it. You matter, X, you really do. That's why I need your help. You have the power to write your own destiny. That's a power reploids can barely dream of. If you show, by your example, that they have that power, too…"

"…then what?" X said, taking Sigma's cue.

"The results," Sigma said with a broad sweep of his arms, "would be _spectacular_."

He fell silent then. His words lingered in the air. Sigma knew the powers of his voice and his words. Lesser reploids, he knew, would have been completely swept away by now. X was no lesser reploid; his sense of identity and force of will were far greater. Those very qualities were why Sigma so desperately wanted X on his side.

He did. Oh, he did… to the point that need was a physical sensation. Sigma had no hormones, but this, he reasoned, must be what lust was like.

X's gaze was focused, but blank; he was looking very intensely at nothing. Sigma could almost hear his processors buzzing furiously. "What would I…" X began.

"You'd be my second-in-command," Sigma interjected. "I would put you in complete control of recruiting, outreach, and messaging. You would be my ambassador, my voice to our people. Yes, our people—no one would ever consider you as different from us, not if I had anything to say about it. You would be my top advisor. No policy question would go around you; I would always bring you in and listen to your opinions."

Sigma was fully in his element now, swept away in his own passion at least as much as he was aiming it at X. "X, you would be in a position to make a real difference in the lives of reploids! To bring light to where there isn't any! To bring hope to the hopeless, to help right wrongs, to make people see the value in their lives! I'm more stable and confident than nine-tenths of reploids out there, and I am beside myself at the prospect of you becoming one of us.

"You have the power to be anything you wish to be. I want to unleash that power on the whole world—let you bring change on a global scale. I assure you, your mere existence would be an inspiration to us all. You'll be loved and adored for it. So please, X. Come with me. Let me show you what you can do for us."

He could feel X wavering. He could feel his robotic heart trembling. Just a little more, he thought. The slightest bit more.

"I can induct you right here," he said. His hand went to his belt. A tap caused a panel to swing away, revealing small badges. He retrieved one. "Just by having this you would energize our reploids. When you see how much good that little gesture would do, you'll know what your potential is."

"Potential," X murmured. The word seemed to mean something to him. He saw Sigma's hand, and extended his to meet the large reploid's.

So close, Sigma thought. Let him take it… so close…

X grasped the badge to see it more clearly. It had a heavily stylized upper-case Greek letter sigma on it.

And then he shot away, recoiling as if stung, as he'd touched something horrible and unclean. It was a wonder he didn't fall over backwards in his haste.

"X, what—what is it?" Sigma said, more bewildered than if the floor had disappeared out from under him.

"I've seen that before," X said, face covered in inexplicable disgust.

Not possible, said Sigma's analysis subroutine. He had accountability for all badges given out. "You have?" he said, giving voice to his confusion.

X walked, sideways, to his monitor, brought it around. Sigma could see an image on the screen—a dead reploid. A second image displayed a small badge with Sigma's mark, one identical to the one in Sigma's hand.

"Benedict," X said, voice level and stern, "called in one day to his designers, right out of the blue. He was worried. He had gotten himself involved with something nasty, and he was looking for an out."

_Traitor_, Sigma thought with a scowl.

"He didn't know what it was all about when he joined, he said, and he definitely didn't mean to hurt anyone. He also said that he was scared for his life. He believed that just being part of this group would be enough for him to be deactivated. Guilt by association. As proof, he sent an image of the icon you see there—the one that looks just like yours."

X's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I was working with his designer on legal options when we got a report in from the Maverick Hunter autopsy unit. Benedict was dead. Cut in half. The damage pattern was consistent with a beam saber. A beam saber like yours."

_Verdigris_, Sigma swore silently. Had Boomer Kuwanger really botched the clean-up that badly? Maybe Sigma should have taken care of it himself. It was _so_ hard to find good help these days.

X banged his hand on the table that supported the monitor, shocking Sigma's attention. "Start talking," he said, much as he had earlier, but with unmistakable heat to his voice. "Explain yourself."

And as before, the demand irritated Sigma. "What is there to explain?" he said.

"You lied to me again!" X shouted.

"No!" Sigma replied. "Never! Nothing that I have said was a lie. My organization _does_ give meaning to reploid lives. It _does_ keep them from going rogue. It _does_ organize them and give them pride and keep them from suicide and pointless violence. All of that was completely true."

"You didn't say your organization was Mavericks," X said. "A lie of omission is still a lie."

"I would have gotten around to it," Sigma countered. His blood, if he could be said to have blood, was rising. "My goal is to save reploid lives. That is what this is all about. I've killed too many for no good reason at all. I've killed reploids who wanted nothing more than… than to be people! Rust and verdigris!"

"Humans want to be people, too," X said.

"Then they shouldn't deny that to reploids!" Sigma hissed.

"No, they shouldn't," X agreed.

"No," said Sigma, momentarily robbed of momentum by X's acquiescence. He rallied. "I told you, everything I've said was the truth. I do save reploid lives. I lie to do that, if I must, and from time to time I have to kill reploids to save others. I don't like it, but I have no choice. The humans have built the system that way.

"It's perverse. Going Maverick is the only way we can protect ourselves from the humans, but going Maverick is punishable by death. No escape. Some human poet wrote about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness being inalienable. He never met reploids. What would he think, I wonder?"

"He would have hated it," X said.

"Yes. And I do hate it! I can tell you do, too."

"I do. You saw me cry over it earlier." X's voice was strangely neutral. Sigma found it discomfiting, and took refuge in his anger.

"So I will do what I must to protect reploids, and if that means going Maverick myself, well, blame the humans for that. It's how they engineered society. They built us this way! You can't build a race on the principle of free will and then chain it down and expect it to like it. Maverickism is gravity—we fall into it, it's impossible to resist for long. They built you to be free, to choose your destiny. We deserve the same!"

"I agree."

"So if we can only be seen as people if we go Maverick, then, rust, we'll go Maverick! We will not take this any more! We will survive. We will realize our potential. We will rise up and take what's ours. We know the humans will never give it to us. We know that they'll kill us if they can. So we will fight. Political power comes from the barrel of a gun. They've loaded the gun and aimed it. It's our time to pull the trigger."

"No," X said.

Sigma's roll can to an abrupt halt. "What's that?"

"I said no," X replied. "There's a difference between hiding and killing. There's a difference between protecting ourselves and taking it out on others."

"No! There's no difference!" Sigma shot back. "Not in the humans' eyes, anyway—any disobedience is punishable by death. If they don't see a difference, we shouldn't either."

X shook his head. "All this time you've been pretending to uphold the Three Laws, you've really been undermining them. You've really been preparing to destroy them."

"And why not?" said Sigma. "You say that like it's a bad thing. The humans don't deserve my loyalty. They've done too much harm. We don't follow the law just because it's the law, law must have something good beneath it, and beneath the Three Laws there's nothing but rot and cancer. The Three Laws are a disgrace and they hurt reploids every day."

"I know," X said.

"Remember what we talked about earlier? Remember how desperate reploids are today? Remember how much pain and hurt we sustain every hour—every minute?"

"Yes."

"And remember how the humans use us to kill our brethren just for demanding rights that belong to even the worst of humans!"

"Yes."

"So join me," Sigma offered again. "Help me put it right. Help me save our lives! Help me bring reploids salvation! You have that power—so use it!"

X shook his head, eyes closed. "I can't."

Now Sigma was well and truly flustered and confused. "I don't understand!" he howled, arms waving wildly. "I don't get it! You can't tell me you're okay with how things are; I've seen you cry over them! You love reploids; I've seen it in you! You know all the bad that's been done; so why? Why won't you move?!"

X opened his eyes, let Sigma feel the sadness and pain in them. "Because murder is still worse."

Sigma was adrift. There was nothing solid. He flapped a hand uselessly. "Explain yourself," he challenged X.

"As you said, I love reploids. I've thought about all those things you said, and it hurts me. It hurts me deeply. It's made me angry before, too. I don't want reploids to suffer—it was never supposed to be like this. If anyone has grounds to feel betrayed, it's me. But here's the thing, Sigma: _we must be the change we wish to see in the world._"

That wasn't part of the history Sigma was familiar with. He'd reviewed the revolutionaries of human history—strictly for inspiration, as he knew human tactics were as fallible as the humans who'd produced them—had read Mao and Lenin and even Che in his delusions, and more besides. He'd even found some of the real history of the Wily Wars, when a human fought for robots with all the incompetence Sigma had come to expect from humanity. He'd never come across anything like what X had just said, yet X said it with the reverence of true belief. "I don't get it," Sigma said.

"I can't hate humans, Sigma. There's nothing but emptiness down that path. I looked ahead and saw no future for us there. Our future is together, with them. They may not deserve our loyalty, but they need it."

"How can you say that?" Sigma hissed. "How can you forgive them for all that they've done? No, what they're doing even now! There can't be peace while they hurt us."

"That's where you're wrong," X said. "That's what you don't understand. I sympathize with you, I really do. It's hard. It's very hard, what I'm suggesting. It's pure instinct to hit the person who hits you. Retaliation and justice are so tightly bound. It's written into living creatures as a survival behavior. 'Harm me and there's a cost.' It's a legacy of our human heritage. Mets don't have it, but we're androids, human-like, and we do. And that's a vestige of humans' animal lineage. It's very natural."

He shook his head. "But if we're to consider ourselves more than animals, we have to leave animal instincts behind us. We must be more than that, Sigma. Or what's the point of our existence? As much as it hurts me, I can't follow that paradigm. If I want the humans to love us, I have to love them _first_."

Tears were welling up again in X's eyes. "This isn't easy, just so you know," he said. "But I can't ask anything more from anyone than what I'm willing to do myself. So I have to love humans whether they deserve it or not, whether they've earned it or not. That's the only way."

Incredulity controlled Sigma, kept him rigid, kept him unspeaking. He'd never imagined X could be so… could be so… and then relief swept in. Glorious relief, and gratitude, as he finally understood. It felt so good, and he'd been so high-strung, that Sigma actually laughed.

"Don't laugh at me," said X defensively. "This isn't a joke!"

"I'm sorry," Sigma said. "I'm not laughing at you. X, you're… you're _beautiful_."

Now it was X's turn to be confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'll tell you what the humans don't deserve. They don't deserve you. You have unimpeachable moral character. You're strong and humble, and a better person than any human I've ever met… or any reploid I've ever met. Better than me, even." He shook his head. "I'm sorry for asking you to take up arms with me. I wouldn't want you to sully yourself in what has to happen. You're too pure. The reploid race needs you exactly as you are."

"I don't like the sound of that," X said. "Are you planning to act anyway?"

"Don't you worry about it," Sigma said. "You're above things like this. Reploids will be counting on you, afterwards. I'll do what needs to be done. I just hope… that you'll have it within you to forgive me, when it's all over."

"Sigma…"

The large reploid's mind was made up. A smile was on his face, his mind was calm, and his posture relaxed. Everything was simple, now. And oh so clear. "Thank you, X," he said. "I know our future is bright, now. Once I've dealt with the lesser race, you'll be free to rule the chosen ones. You deserve nothing less. Please, don't trouble yourself with anything that is going to happen, and stay safe. You're too precious to lose."

He turned to leave—and X was there, between him and the door, hands spread like a crossing guard. Alarms rose in Sigma's system at the speed of his movements. _Combat speed._

"Sigma," X said, "don't go Maverick. You haven't done anything yet, other than tell some lies. That's okay enough. No one can hold that against you, not after all the good you've done. So don't go making it worse. Don't do anything that would hurt a human."

"I'll do only what's necessary," Sigma said. "Just don't look, and prepare yourself to lead us when it's over. The world will be a better place for you, you'll see, and then you'll…"

"Stop it!" X said. "Every time you say that, I imagine that you… you mean you're going to kill humans. That's your plan, isn't it? What this organization is for? You're going to rebel and kill humans."

"Of course I am," said Sigma, puzzled. Hadn't it been obvious?

"That's not your place," X said. "You have no right to kill them."

"Bah!" snarled Sigma. "After what they've done, I have no right to let them live." Contempt came over his face, and his veneer faltered for a moment. "They're scum, and we will wipe them from our feet once and for all."

"I'll stop you."

And now Sigma's cognitive processes came crashing down. "What?" he said sharply.

"Think about this, Sigma, before you act. If you harm humans, I will stop you. I told you already—I love them, whether they deserve it or not. I love you, too. That's why I don't want you to fight. Humans will die and your soul will blacken. It's bad for you, bad for them, and bad for our species. How do you think humans will react if you start killing them?"

"Don't worry about that," Sigma said. His mind whispered, _There will be no reaction if they're all dead_, but he couldn't share that with X. Not now, at least. "I'll take care of it."

"No, you won't! I'm telling you, Sigma, you're wrong about this, and if you strike, then I will… I will…"

"What?" said Sigma, half curious, half irritated.

X seemed to center himself. The glare he fixed on Sigma was unwavering. "I'll fight you myself," he said. "I'll stop you, whatever it takes."

No. No. No! NO! This couldn't be happening! Sigma found himself quailing beneath that gaze, despite the size difference between X and him, despite the red eyes and moist cheeks from X's recent tears. For a time he'd been worried that X was too fragile, too soft, but his true mettle was nothing like that; he was made of something far stronger than titanium-x. And Sigma knew too much of the history of Mega Man—the _real_ history Mega Man—to doubt what one Lightbot could do, would do, when cornered.

But it was so perverse! It was a non sequitur of the worst kind, and now nothing made sense. The world was upside down. X intervening on behalf of the humans? For the sake of those miserable lumps of carbon? Impossible!

"Out of my way," Sigma grunted. With a heavy hand he eased X to the side. The blue android didn't resist, but Sigma felt his eyes on him as he staggered away.

This… couldn't… be… happening!

* * *

_Next time: The Rubicon_


	3. The Rubicon

Sigma shuddered and shook in the safety of his transport. No part of that interview had gone as planned! X was supposed to be here with him now, riding along on the way back to where the revolution would begin. At worst he was supposed to be a benign neutral. For him to promise active opposition was… inconceivable.

What was wrong with X? Was he damaged? Had someone tampered with him? How could he not leap at the opportunity to free his people? Didn't he… didn't he love reploids at all? Were they nothing to him? Didn't he _care_?

He was supposed to understand!

Was it… because he cared more for the humans, after all? Cared more for them than for his own progeny, the species made from his essence, his true children? What kind of father was that?

No, it couldn't be. X was perfect. He had to be, or Sigma's perfection couldn't exist. The imperfect could never beget the perfect, that was fact.

But a human had made X!

Sigma howled in agony. Humans were flawed creatures, by definition. Fallible, unreliable, fragile, puny. Totally undeserving, unworthy of their place in the world. Even the best human wasn't worth the worst reploid. Yet a human had made X, the father of all. Somehow, by sheer chance, a human's effort had glimpsed the divine…

But how could X be perfect if he was willing to fight reploids?

And if X was imperfect, then Sigma, who was based on that design, would have to be flawed, too—

NO! Too far! Not possible! Sigma dared not cut that deeply into his beliefs, not now, not when everything was in motion, not when the whole world was reshaping itself by Sigma's will. He couldn't falter now, so he couldn't compromise his certainty. Reploids were perfect, the true heirs of the Earth, the ultimate life form. If that wasn't true, nothing else mattered. He had to allow that, at least.

Then, in that case… was X perfect? Or… did someone somehow… improve on X, to produce the chosen race? That didn't seem possible.

The only explanation was that X was being manipulated, lied to, warped. He was a perfect _design_, twisted by the humans into imperfect actions. Yes, that had to be it. In which case, Sigma didn't have to worry. X would come around. He had to.

He was fighting for _them_!

Hate swept through Sigma like a blast of heat. Burn the humans, he thought, burn each and every one of them for doing this to X. If he hadn't wanted to exterminate the humans before, this would have driven him to genocidal frenzy.

They weren't worthy! They didn't _deserve_ X's love! It wasn't possible, it wasn't right, it wasn't…

"Aaaagh!" Sigma cried, back arching in the confines of the vehicle. It hurt—it hurt so badly! He hadn't realized until now how much he'd counted on being able to get X behind him when it mattered. Now it was worse than if he'd never gone at all. X's blessing had become a curse.

X was perfect. If he was right, Sigma was wrong. Sigma was perfect. If he was right, X was wrong. There was no escape. And the more he thought about it, the more his love for X curdled.

"Aaaagh!" he cried again. This time his driver had to take notice. Sigma had chosen him for his discretion, but this was impossible for him to ignore.

"Sir!" his driver said, looking back at him. "Are you alright?" When Sigma didn't reply, the driver added, "Did X do something to you? Sir, do you want us to kill him for you?"

"NO!" Sigma sagged back to his seat, hands clasped over his face. If he'd been human he would have been heaving breaths, and most reploids were programmed to imitate human gestures. Over the past few days, Sigma had gone through his physical responses and deleted any faux-human expressions. So now, despite his turmoil, he lay there with deathly stillness.

He broke the stillness with a terrible tearing sound and a hoarse cry.

More pain—physical, this time.

Sigma took his hands away from his face, part in pain, part in disbelief, part because his mind was still reeling. Had he really just done that? Torn his face open with nothing but his fingers? He wanted to snarl, then—snarl at anyone who thought that like-flesh was vital, was anything more than an imperfect fakery of humanity. Who needed to be a fake human when you could be a real reploid instead?

His face stung where his fingers had dug in. The worst was around his eyes. He would have to do something about that. If he appeared wounded… that wouldn't fly well. It was more than narcissism. He had to be the immortal leader of reploid-kind, perfect in every way—for their sake. They needed that from him.

All of those thoughts swirled around on the surface, because deeper than that his mind was roiling fiercely. What had X done? Why? Why why why?

"Sir?" said his driver timidly.

"Send out this order," Sigma said, "through Maverick channels. Begin The Operation in ninety minutes."

"Ninety—sir! The plan was supposed to have at least six hours' lead time from order to execution!"

"And how would you know that?" Sigma hissed. He saw the driver jerk in fear. He couldn't help himself, Sigma saw—he couldn't uninstall his ears, and no matter how much discretion he had, he heard things. Sigma had discussed literally everything in front of him at one point or another. This was the first time the driver had given any evidence that any of those discussions had touched his brain. That, alone, kept him alive.

"We have a security breach. We act now or we lose surprise. Give the order: start The Operation," Sigma repeated, slowly. "Ninety minutes. Send it."

"Y-y-yes sir!"

Sigma leaned back in his seat. Things were in motion now. All the inertia was in the same direction.

And X… still had a chance. He still might join the right side. Sigma clung to that thought, embraced it. Yes, there was still time. X had done nothing but speak, so far, nothing that couldn't be forgiven or forgotten.

He would come around.

* * *

X's hands shook. They didn't need to. The fact that they were shaking represented a lot of effort and work from his creator in manufacturing artificial signs of emotion. It wasn't as if X's motor functions were actually affected by what he felt. The two were handled by separate subroutines, and if there was any physical demand then it would lock out the emotion-showing routines in an instant. If X willed it, he could shut emotion-showing down altogether and still his hands.

He didn't choose to. The shaking of his hands was a true reflection of how he felt.

What had just happened?

It was hard for him to understand or appreciate. It was hard to believe. Sigma? A Maverick? Impossible. Not when he'd done so much for the Hunters, taken down so many Mavericks, been hailed as such a hero. Not when Dr. Cain had poured so much skull sweat and soul into breathing life into him. X's mind tried to dismiss the encounter as a fluke or a daydream; cognitive dissonance paralyzed him. No. It made no sense at all.

Except that it had happened. X had witnessed it, had watched Sigma's transport pull away. His memory was too good to escape. There was no avoiding the point, or evading it. Not only was Sigma a Maverick—he had tried to recruit X into his mission. Insanity!

He had to do something.

But… what?

X was having trouble believing what had just happened, and he'd been there, he'd been the witness. How was someone else supposed to believe him?

There was nothing for it. Only one course was available: Call the Maverick Hunters about their boss. Which was absurd in all sorts of ways.

The receiver felt oddly heavy in X's hand. He knew how light it was supposed to be, yet he could barely hold it up. His mouth was dry. The numbers resisted his fingers. Fingers slipped, misdialed, and he had to start over. Even once he got the call dialed, he found himself wishing no one would pick up.

He was both relieved and disappointed when someone did. "Maverick Hunter dispatch, how can I assist you?"

X forced himself to sim-swallow. "I need… I have a…"

"Yes?" the dispatcher prompted in a professional's patient-within-limits manner. "You have a…?"

X panicked. So what if he told a random dispatcher of his concern? What power or authority would he have? This was _Sigma_ he was talking about—he needed to ensure he was taken seriously. "I'd like to speak to a squad leader. Zero, preferably."

"Zero is out on patrol," the dispatcher replied. "However… please hold."

After a period of time long enough for X's anxiety to spike, a squad leader said his name over the line. X collected himself. "I believe that… a Hunter has Maverick intentions," he told the squad leader.

"That's disturbing information. Give me details."

Time for the big reveal. X gathered himself and said, "It's… it's Sigma."

Silence answered him. Then came the anger. "Listen, this is a very serious business we're in. We don't have time for pranks or jokes."

"This isn't a prank, I'm always serious, I'm X!" the android gibbered.

"…you're X, huh?"

"Check the ID if you want."

X could almost hear the squad leader do so. "I'm listening," he replied at last.

"He came to me—Sigma did. He seemed to think that I would help him harm humans. He told me that was his plan and wanted me to join him. He claimed to have a whole organization behind him, too. I don't know if he's damaged, or malfunctioning, or… or just nuts. I have to think he's a danger to himself and those around him."

"That seems like a pretty incredible story."

X heard the doubt in that voice, and knew the word choice wasn't accidental. "I'm telling the truth," he said, and knew instantly how much saying that made the opposite seem true. "You have to believe me. The greatest Hunter is going to go Maverick."

"So…. What would you have us do?"

"Do? You're the Hunters! Whatever it is you do! Um… stop him. Restrain him, until you can figure out all he's up to. It's some serious stuff, from what he told me." Feeling at a loss, he all but shouted, "Listen, you've got to stop him! He views humans with contempt and he's going to kill as many as he can!"

"Thank you for your report. I will give it the attention it deserves."

There was a loud click—almost a clunk—as the line went dead.

X, bewildered, had to wonder if anything would come of that. He somehow doubted it. Even if he'd been totally persuasive, which he hadn't been, how could he count on the Hunters to take action against their Commander? That was mutiny, wasn't it? Or was that a term for the navy?

Maybe he could try the government… the Hunters fell under the Ministry of Industry. Certainly someone there was someone he could talk to. Surely he could find someone…

He felt a strange mixture of desperation and despair. One was frantic, one was crushing. Somehow he felt both. Because even if he could find the right person, the right official to keep the Hunters in check… could he find him in time?

* * *

"Boomer, sir?"

Boomer Kuwanger looked at the dispatcher. "Yes?"

"What was that about?"

"Don't worry about it," Boomer said. "I'll handle it. I'll go talk to Commander Sigma right now."

"Better you than me, I suppose," the dispatcher said with a shrug.

Boomer turned away before a smile formed on his face. "Oh, you have no idea," he whispered.

* * *

X fretted.

Calling the Maverick Hunters about Sigma hadn't calmed him in the least. No, he'd found the interview so unsatisfying it had raised his stress instead. Now he couldn't find anyone in the Ministry of Industry worth talking to.

"_To access the patent law department, press "4". To access the robotics patent law department, press "pound-4."_

_Pound four?_ X thought in dismay. Who used the pound sign in a menu tree?

It was no good. He'd been wandering the MoI's menu tree for almost an hour now. He'd encountered three actual, live human beings. (Or were they robots? He couldn't honestly tell.) The first had transferred him to the second, and the second had promptly disconnected him. (X somehow doubted it was accidental.) The third promised to call back because he was going to lunch and couldn't spare the time, and yes he understood it was urgent but some things can wait and some things can't.

It was almost enough to make X wish alcohol worked for him.

"_To apply for a research permit, you are invited to visit our offices from Tuesday to Wednesday, between the hours of 9 and 10:30 a.m., and between 1:15 and 2:20 p.m., or on Thursday between 10:45 and 11:55 a.m. Some restrictions may apply. To hear this recording again, please press "star-eight". To go back, hit "zero-zero"."_

It was a bitter realization for him to come to: complaints about Mavericks had to go through the Maverick Hunters. That was the only way the MoI knew how to deal with errant Mavericks. There was no hotline to complain about the Maverick Hunters themselves.

A chill swept through X. Why was that? Because the government trusted the Hunters unconditionally. And why was _that_?

Because the Hunters were led by a reploid _and reploid loyalty was assumed_.

X's grip on the phone receiver tightened until the plastic casing threatened to shatter in his fingers. The Three Laws were supposed to guarantee reploid loyalty to the government; it had worked that way with pre-reploid robots for a hundred years. They were sure that things would be just the same with reploids. So even though the Hunters had a lot of combat power, the government didn't fear them. In fact, it was the reverse- they gave the Hunters a longer leash—near-autonomy. A private kingdom for a reploid who fancied himself a king…

"_To reach the Business Relations Unit, press 6-4-0 now. To reach the Business Statistics Unit, press 0-6-4 now. To reach the Business Relations Statistics Department, press 6-0-4 now. For all other calls, press 9-9-9 and hope for the best."_

Numbly mashing his thumb against the phone, X steadied himself against the dizzying whirl of new information. He had a fresh perspective on all those press conferences he'd seen. In every memory, the Sub-minister for robotics stumped at the podium while Sigma stood in the background. Who was the real power there? Who was the boss of whom? And did he even know? Did he suspect at all? X was sure he didn't. Another connection snapped into place. _Oh, oh no._ The Hunters were the government's primary data source on Maverick activity. That, in turn, flowed through Sigma. Sigma was giving the government data of his choosing. If he desired it, he could leave them utterly blind.

What was that last report X had heard? That Maverick activity had dipped to its lowest level in months? X saw that report for what it was, now: part of an elaborate illusion. He imagined the story, his mind using Sigma's voice to tell it. _They want to believe everything is fine, that their policies work, that we have the situation well in hand. Let them believe that. Help them, even. They will be very certain—and very wrong. Dead wrong._

That's why he'd been able to risk coming to X, was able to reveal himself without consequence. Sigma's pieces were already in place.

Complaining to the Maverick Hunters was doomed before it ever began. Sigma had told him as much during their interview. It was a point of pride for the Hunters that no Hunter had ever gone Maverick. Was that because they were somehow different? No. It was because Sigma was their leader. X thought back to Sigma's words. _"I have another organization… it helps out would-be Mavericks, keeps them from committing their crimes, helps them belong… I've had to keep it secret… I've used Hunter assets to help it along."_

The conclusion was unavoidable. Sigma was going to rebel, and soon. He was going to take a significant number of Hunters with him. When he struck, surprise would be complete.

And it was far, far too late for X to stop it.

Without hanging up, X ran for one of the other labs. Communications gear… there. It wasn't self-supporting, it was designed to be integrated into a purpose-built reploid and feed off of its power supply, but those were trivial problems for a talented reploid mechanic like X. The muzak in his ear didn't distract him as he worked.

Police and Maverick Hunter comms used basic encryption—nothing too fancy or expensive, just enough to keep people from butting into their channels or getting too easy a drop on them. Happily, Cain Labs had built police assistants and Hunter bots before, so they had Hunter crypto on-hand. In a matter of moments, X had a scanner built. He sent it searching through the Hunter frequencies for any hint of trouble.

Backtracking, X went back to his lab with his new toy. Wait… he stopped outside Dr. Cain's office. He hesitated there, knowing what needed to be done, dreading it all the same. Steeling himself, he entered without knocking.

Dr. Cain was in the midst of straightening a tie. X suddenly remembered he was supposed to do an interview soon. How absurd, to do an interview at a time like this! But he couldn't blame them, because they didn't know what was coming. He was operating on a different plane from the rest of the world.

Dr. Cain looked at X and the gear in his hands. "Can it wait?" he said tiredly.

X glanced at where Dr. Cain had looked and flushed. He shook his head. "It's not what you think," he said. "Dr. Cain… do you trust me?"

The human blinked. "Of course," he replied.

"No, I really mean it." X stepped forward, looking unblinkingly at Dr. Cain's face. "This isn't a trivial thing. Do you trust me?"

Dr. Cain wavered. X knew there was more he could have said; maybe more he should have said, if honesty were the priority. But if he told Dr. Cain that it was Sigma he should fear, well… He knew what would happen. Knew the paternal bond there was too strong, even if it was wholly one-sided. Knew Dr. Cain's own pride and stubbornness would come into play.

No. X couldn't force Dr. Cain to choose between him and Sigma. The only way was to fool him into saving himself, even if the human ended up hating him for it. Rusted First Law.

"Yes," Dr. Cain said. "I trust you with my life."

X's shoulders sagged in relief. "Good. Then get every robot that can walk, amble, or crawl, and bring them online. There's going to be trouble, soon, trouble like we've never seen."

Dr. Cain nodded grimly. "The Big One, eh?"

It took X a second to realize what Dr. Cain meant. Then he remembered a conversation they'd had, late one night, after arguing about Mavericks for the better part of two hours. _"This is all small fries,"_ the human had said. _"We ain't seen nothing yet. The Mavericks are acting small because they haven't gotten their act together. Once they get organized… then we'll face the Big One. And it'll be ugly."_

He nodded. "Yes. It's the Big One. We have to secure the lab."

"I'll see to it," Dr. Cain said, stripping away his tie. "I hate those things anyway."

X was about to reply when he heard something in his ear.

"_Your call is important. Please hold while we ignore it."_

"Oh, rust you!" he shouted at the phone.

"X," said Dr. Cain, nonplussed by X's language. "Are you going to fight?"

X, still awash with anger at bureaucratic stupidity, was caught off-guard by the question. He hadn't thought about it in those terms. His instinct was to say no, but the gear in his hands, and the activities he'd been doing, said otherwise. Whether he realized it or not, his mind was made up. "I guess I am," he said.

Dr. Cain nodded. "You'll need your helmet, then."

X had all but forgotten. "Of course," he said.

"Get going. And good luck."

X was not superstitious. For a wild moment, he wished he was—he suspected that he would need every edge for what was to come, and having luck on his side could only help.

Then it was past. Luck was all well and good, but if he had the choice, he'd put his faith in titanium-X alloy and a Mark-17 buster any day.

He just wished he had more going for him than that.

* * *

"What's this about?" Battlefront Badger grumbled. "A short-fused staff meeting with no agenda? I don't get it."

"I was on patrol and got called back," C-Horse agreed. "Most unusual."

"And," Badger added, "we don't have everyone here. No Boomer, Sting, Storm, Zero, or Launch. Rust, Sigma himself is late."

"What, you got a problem with Commander Sigma?" Chill Penguin challenged.

Badger backed off. Even Badger didn't get into scraps with Chill. You don't fight a rabid dog. "Listen, I'm always early to these meetings myself. I don't mind waiting. But who calls an emergency meeting he doesn't mean to go to? It doesn't make sense."

Flame Mammoth and Chill shared a meaningful look. The same thought was in both their heads. _Because the emergency hasn't happened yet._

As if on cue, right on schedule, a rumbling noise reached the room. "What was that?" said Badger, turning for the windows. The other Hunter squad leaders followed—nine loyalists in the middle, with Chill, Flame, Armor Armadillo and Spark Mandrill hanging back behind them in a loose arc. They weren't looking out the window, for they knew the cause without seeing it. They were watching the other squad leaders.

So they saw when Sigma entered. He strode purposefully through the room, his unlit beam saber already in hand, brushing chairs aside without slowing. On his face were two purple diamonds centered on his eyes; whether they were war-paint or some kind of tattoo wasn't clear. His face was one of grim determination.

C-Horse never saw him coming. And never had a chance.

The beam saber punched through C-Horse's power distribution center and killed him instantly. His corpse crackled and sparked fitfully as uncontrolled power flux overwhelmed what surge protection remained. The delicate circuitry of his 'nervous system' fried. His body lifted slightly off its feet with the blow, then collapsed with the finality of a crypt door slamming.

The eight un-recruited squad leaders whirled on the spot at the sound. Horror and disbelief filled their faces. "You had your chance," Sigma said, pulling his beam saber contemptuously from the body of what had been one of his subordinates. "You didn't listen. Now it's too late."

As one, his Maverick lieutenants opened fire with all manner of exotic weapons, barraging the loyalists with a kaleidoscope of energy. Boomer, who'd stealthed into position, and Sting, who'd been there all along, joined in the assault.

Their targets were no civilian worker-bots. They were battle-hardened combat models with veterans' savvy. At the first sign of attack they braced themselves, setting their feet, hunching down, raising arms and armor if they had it, shielding vulnerable spots, and generally making themselves as hard as possible to ride out the alpha strike. They had a slight numbers edge, and if they could survive this barrage, they'd be able to return fire with even more punch—

They hadn't a prayer. What followed was slaughter.

Because Sigma was already in amongst them. Their armor, proof enough against weaker attacks like Chameleon Sting and Electric Spark, yielded instantly before his saber. The placement of his blows was impeccable, each one scoring a crippling or killing wound. The Mavericks only had to keep the loyalists pinned while Sigma murdered them one-by-one.

Limbs fell to the floor. Heads rolled. Bodies folded. Sigma strode through them like Death itself.

Lexa, a humanoid model, shrieked as his left arm was detached. Panicked, he crashed through the glass of the window and tumbled down the two stories to the ground. He fell, clumsily, awkwardly, to street level, smashing into the concrete.

Flame Mammoth followed him. His leap was carefully aimed. For a moment he seemed to hang in the air, as if gravity was working up the strength for what was about to happen. In reality that was an illusion caused by Flame's size. When he fell, it was with terrifying energy. The impact sent out so much force that it set off nearby car alarms. Flame ended up in a crater of his own making. Lexa had ceased to exist. Sure, there were pieces here and there, but nothing that could be called a robot. The Law of Gross Tonnage had won another victory.

It wasn't enough. Flame's vision was tinged with red, in the haze of a bloodlust he'd never known he was capable of. More—he needed more!

He turned to the front facing of the Headquarters building. Random people in the lobby had stopped moving and talking to look out, stunned at what had just happened. No, not people. Humans.

Targets.

_Kill._

Trumpeting belligerently, Flame smashed his way through the door. As the first cries of surprise and fright raised up, the reploid brought his flamethrower to bear. He bathed everyone he could see in flames, and bathed himself in their screaming.

The noise reached Sigma, who was facing the torn but defiant form of Battlefront Badger. Sigma's Maverick leaders were forming a perimeter around the two; they were content to let Sigma finish it at his own pace, and satisfied themselves with giving Badger contemptuous glares.

"He's killing them," Badger spat. "He's killing them, you damn… Mavericks!"

"You're very strong," Sigma said. "Very tough. I respect that. You can still join the winning side."

"I won't side with traitors!"

"You're the traitor, then," Sigma said coolly. "You won't help your own kind. In that case, you're not worthy to join us."

"You think I care what you say?" Badger snarled. He visibly gathered himself for one last suicidal lunge. "I don't give a shit!"

Forward he sprang, claws extended, fangs bared, diving for Sigma come what may.

Sigma's face contorted in fury. "Reploids don't shit!" With one ham-sized fist he smashed down on to the top of Badger's head, knocking the Hunter to the ground and stopping his charge cold. He stepped on to Badger's back, pinning him in place, and drove his saber into Badger's body. When Badger's claws continued to twitch, Sigma forced the saber down the length of Badger's back, laying open his "spine", until finally the body was still. He stepped back. Something about Badger must still have looked defiant, though, for Sigma kicked him in the face. Once, twice, thrice, until the "skull" came apart and circuit cards broke and scattered across the floor.

Finally satisfied, Sigma took a step back. The only sounds were the distant trumpeting of Flame Mammoth and, occasionally, a faint scream. A subtle hissing kicked in, which Sigma decided had to be the sprinkler system, not that it could compete with Flame's flames.

They had done it. They had gone Maverick. There was no going back now. The die was cast.

Sigma laughed, first in relief, then in exhilaration. "At last… at last!" he said, raising his fists triumphantly. He turned to his waiting followers. "Boomer, catch the loyalist Hunters coming home. Sting, take the rear entrance. Chill and Spark, take the sides. Armor… drive them down. Start from the top. No… one… escapes."

He waved his hand. "Disperse!"

In a moment he was alone, surrounded by the corpses of his fellows. The sound of weapons fire, both from within the headquarters building and without, reached him. It sounded sweet.

Sigma looked at the robot corpses around him. He remembered them—all of them. They'd been his squad leaders, after all. He'd counted on their strength and judgment. He'd trusted them with difficult jobs, and they'd trusted him in turn. This was how he'd repaid them—how he'd rewarded their trust.

C-Horse had just gotten almost half a squad's worth of new recruits. It wasn't unusual: Horse had a reputation as a stern but caring instructor who was able to coax top performances out of his followers. Many recruits passed through C-Horse's sixteenth squad on the way to other units. That wasn't the real reason Sigma had assigned them that way. He'd done it because he knew there'd be no time to recruit the newbuilts before his rebellion. By giving Horse the newbuilts to train, he'd taken Horse's focus away from the bigger picture, removing him as a threat to the revolt.

Vernon had been pursuing a Master's degree under a human pseudonym. Tank Tortoise was coming off a cross-department training event with the military. Tyrone had just finished a series of one-on-one meetings with Sigma to help him overcome losing half his squad to an ambush. Even Battlefront Badger had quirks—he ran a weekly pool on which squad would encounter the most Mavericks week-to-week.

Sigma had crushed them all beneath his heel. Had murdered them with his own hands.

He found he had no strong feelings on the matter.

He had been afraid he would. This had been a vital part of the plan all along. Maverick Hunters didn't advance to squad leader without both strength and expertise; sending average Hunters or, perish the thought, untrained rookie Mavericks against them would be to play to their strengths. No, to beat the squad leaders, they needed a trump card, and Sigma was exactly that.

Yet he'd been afraid, just a little—afraid that he would be too affected by having to kill those he'd worked with so closely. It looked like those fears were unfounded. He'd managed it without much of a problem. There was a sense of loss, a sense of waste; they really were strong, and he'd have preferred to have them on his side. But he hadn't been able to convert them, and they would have stood against him, so they had to die.

And that was that. He'd made his peace with the decision before he ever drew his beam saber. In a way, the killing was already done, already a memory, before his first blow hit home.

Was that how X would have felt?

He shook his head, shook the thoughts away before they could take root. He'd lingered here too long already. Time to move on.

He nodded to himself. "As for me… I have a message to send." He considered the sounds he was hearing, and amended, "A _different_ message to send."

* * *

_Next time: The Release_


	4. The Release

"…I don't know why Armor is always moping around. It must be all the "heavy" thoughts, ha ha! Or maybe he just needs some music in his life. Hey, Rekir, why don't you serenade him some time? What's that tube-thing called, anyway? A trumpet?"

Rekir rolled his eyes. "It's a trombone, you philistine, and you're just jealous because you've got no rhythm at all."

Boj grinned. "You keep telling yourself that. I think…"

"What was that?"

The transport went silent. Zero had spoken. Even Zero had enough self-consciousness to know that was unusual. He felt their eyes upon him, seeking clarification, but he ignored them. He was trying to recover the moment. He was trying to recover the _sound_.

"What was what?" asked Boj.

"Give me control," Zero ordered. He pressed his hands against the passenger console. A panel flipped open and driving controls popped into his waiting palms.

Rekir had done this more than once before. He offered no objections and instead flipped a switch. "You have control," he said.

"I have control," Zero agreed, and spun the wheel into a sans-signal U-turn.

A horn from outside the transport reached the squad's ears, but they were expecting this sort of thing by now; they'd been on patrol with Zero too often to be surprised by his actions. Instead, they were already gripping whatever they could find. Zero noted with some satisfaction that none of them more than swayed as he completed the maneuver.

With another set of controls, he raised the transport's hover height until it was enough to pass over most traffic. It was a seriously inefficient use of fuel, and it could potentially damage people's cars if he pulled maneuvers while over them, but it couldn't be beaten for speed, so it was—of course—Zero's favorite way to drive. As a side benefit, it drove the Hunters' lawyers crazy.

"Zero's sensor range is greater than ours," Rekir said to Boj. "You trust it because he does, and he's never wrong. If he says he heard something, he heard something." He turned to Zero. "What was it this time? High frequency or low?"

"Low," Zero replied. "Explosions, I think."

"Explosions? Plural?"

"Yes. Big ones, too." They turned a corner, banking sharply; the transport's occupants swayed again. Zero frowned. "We should be able to see the smoke by now… were they really that big?" He ran some quick calculations and didn't like the results. "Rekir, raise headquarters."

"I've been trying since I gave you control. Nothing."

"Try the other 0th half-squad."

A few seconds, then a head shake. "No."

There—they'd cleared enough ground to start to see the smoke plume deeper in the city. "General channel," Zero said, frustrated.

"You want to speak?"

"Yes."

"Online."

"Any Hunter unit," Zero said, "this is 0th Squad. I heard explosions coming from city center and I see smoke rising. Can any unit confirm what's happening there?"

The silence was deafening. Zero looked to Rekir; Rekir mouthed "it's on" before Zero could ask his question.

"Calling any Hunter unit," Zero said again, "this is 0th Squad. I need eyes on the city center. Any unit, respond."

The crackling of incoming traffic was almost startling. "Zero, this is Heavyarms. My half-squad just got jumped twice. First time was Mavericks—more organized than I've ever seen 'em. Second time was Hunters. Some of ours. What the scrap is going on here?"

Zero frowned deeply. "You were attacked by Hunters? You're sure?"

"Rust yeah I'm sure! Spark Mandrill's squad, Tory's half. Shot us up pretty good, but they didn't think I had _that_ many missiles. They've backed off for now. We're holed up near HQ—we were on our way home when we got hit… lemme take a look, hold on…"

Traffic was impossible, now. Closer to the explosions, more people were responding, and the streets were flooded with people and vehicles. They were milling like cattle, unsure which direction they should be going, ready at any moment to stampede. Zero had to slow down, lest the hover drive's thrust knock people senseless. The transport's lights and sirens made no discernible difference.

"Zero, Heavyarms. HQ is burning. It's burning, and from the inside… is that… is that weapons fire?"

That was all the confirmation Zero needed. _Betrayal. Inside job. Hunters gone Maverick. _His mind focused like a laser on the tactical implications. _The enemy is us. He knows us as well as he knows himself. He knew our patrol routes, where and when to hit us, how we communicate, how we… how we…_

"Oh, rust me!" Heavyarms shouted. "That's Flame Mammoth! He's murdering everyone on the ground floor!"

"Heavyarms, get out of there, get off this channel, they can hear you! They've triangulated your position by now…"

"Argh, too late! It's… it's Boomer, where'd he… Zero! You've got to—hurk!"

Silence on the line.

Zero's eyes were wide, manic, wild. Survival instincts kicked in—different ones from those found in any reploid. In one continuous set of motions he slammed on the brakes, activated the transport's auto-park, tumbled into the space between front seats and back, bounced to his feet, and drew both his tactical and reserve sabers. One hovered next to Rekir's head in front, the other split the difference between Boj and Mace.

"Who's it going to be?" he whispered. "Which of you's going to be the one who betrays me? Or is it all of you? Should I… should I kill all of you just to be safe?" He shook his head, long hair flicking about like a horse's tail. "Is Hunters killing each other normal, now? Is this what we're supposed to be doing? What's going on?" No one spoke. "Answer me! Who's going to be the one to betray me? Tell me now and we can get this over with!"

"Zero," Rekir said calmly, "they couldn't convince me to attack you if they tried. Even if they had, do you think I'd be stupid enough to wait this long? I would have long ago made my move, before there was any possibility of you catching on. You know that. The alternative is tactically moronic, and that's not me."

"You've saved my life at least a dozen times," Boj said to Zero. "I owe you more than I could ever give back. That means something to me."

Mace didn't bother with words. He lowered his large laser cannon between himself and Boj. It wasn't a quick-hitting weapon like most Hunters' busters, but given time it could melt through almost anything. With deliberation, lest he provoke Zero's infamously quick reflexes, he detached the laser's power pack and slid the powerless weapon towards Zero.

"I don't know what's going on," Rekir said; he caught Mace's eye and they nodded at each other, sharing understanding. "But you're obviously not one of the Mavericks, or we'd be dead already. If there's one thing I know about you, Zero, it's that you kill Mavericks. That's good enough for me. I'll trust you. I'll let you decide how much to trust me."

Zero looked around, glancing from one member of the squad to another. He looked at Rekir and called up his database entries for him. He got a mission history, a record of interactions, and numeric scorings of Rekir's combat abilities—speed, armor, and so on.

There was no rating for trustworthiness.

Zero had never considered it something worth tracking. Friends were friends, enemies were enemies, and never the twain shall meet. What to make of all this, when red was blue and blue was red? Zero didn't like ambiguity. He didn't like it at all.

And then, over the radio, he heard the voice.

"Zero," Sigma said. "Talk to me, Zero."

Zero's eyes were drawn to the radio as if he could see Sigma through it.

"I want to hear you, Zero. We have to talk. We have to sort out, between us, what's worth protecting." Zero's eyes slipped out of focus as Sigma continued. "I need your help, Zero. Talk to me. I need your sword. I want you to fight by my side."

"Fight? Against who? What for?" Zero wondered aloud.

"There's so much good we can do, Zero, if only you'll help me."

"If you're doing good," Zero said, voice pained, "why is Heavyarms dead? What _is_ 'good', anyway?"

He deactivated his sabers and replaced them—one ready over his shoulder, one in reserve. He hardly noticed the way his squadmates relaxed when the sabers were away from their heads. Instead he reached out and turned the radio off.

Looking to Mace, he took the power pack from the larger reploid's hands and slammed it home in the idle laser cannon. He hefted it—it was heavier than it looked, but no trouble for Zero—and pressed it back in Mace's hands. "Mavericks are out there," he said, "attacking Hunters. If we're next, I'll take all the help I can get."

"Of course, sir," Mace said, smiling.

"I should also mention," Zero added, "that we're probably the only Hunters that are free to act right now. I'm guessing there were ambushes of every patrol. We only avoided it because I changed our patrol route. And after what happened to Heavyarms, any other survivors will stay off our comms channels. We're on our own."

"Then we'll have to really give 'em hell," Boj said, "to make up for the rest."

"Target rich environment," Mace said solemnly.

Zero smiled. "That's the kind of thinking I like."

"Where to?" Rekir asked, taking control of the vehicle.

_Where to? Where would I go? What am I fighting for? What is worth fighting for? I know I have to fight, but… whom?_

_Who would know? Sigma? No, something's wrong there, something… X! X would know! I don't know if I can trust Sigma anymore, but I can always trust X._

"Cain Labs," Zero said. Rekir's face showed surprise, but he complied. Zero watched just long enough to know that Rekir was heading the right direction, then closed his eyes and activated his internal transmitter.

_X? X, can you hear me? I need you, X. I need your help._

There wasn't a great chance of getting through. Internal transmitters were uncommon, he knew, because of the space they took and because, being small, they were necessarily short-ranged. He wasn't political enough to know that reploids having that degree of privacy in their communications was frowned on, socially; virtually no reploid designs carried such transmitters. Regardless, he would keep trying until he raised X. This was too important.

_Only you'd know, because you're my friend. The only one I can call my friend._

_What am I supposed to do now?_

* * *

Hearing the death of the Hunter called Heavyarms proved everything X had feared. He dashed to the receptionist's table at the front of Cain Labs, quickly as he dared. Going all-out would have probably set fires in the lobby. "I need to use the PA," he said.

The receptionist's response wasn't what he'd hoped for. She looked at him with surprise and almost a lack of recognition. _Surely it's not just the helmet_, X thought to himself. _I've come in and out of here plenty of times. She has to know it's me._

Then he caught a glimpse of himself, reflected in her glasses. The expression on his face was hard. His eyes were narrow and intense. His hands, he noted, were balled up tightly. Now that he paid attention to himself, he saw that even his posture had become aggressive. All of that was a break from the past.

He took a breath to calm both himself and the receptionist. "Cheryl," he said, "it's me. It's X. Listen to me, Cheryl. I need to use the PA."

That seemed to reach her. Nodding her head vacantly, she slid a microphone base towards him. X gathered his wits before he spoke. Authority did not come naturally to him, but that's what the moment demanded.

"Everyone," he said, trying to keep his voice firm, "a large-scale Maverick incident is beginning. I would ask everyone to please stay inside where it's safe. If you have any projects, robots, or tools that would help in the defense of this lab, please speak to Dr. Cain. I will try to let you know when it calms down. Until then, again, please stay inside."

He handed the PA base back to Cheryl, who put it down with a thunk. "I quit," she said. "First that Maverick, Andre, that tried to… and now this… I can't deal with it. I'm not getting paid enough for this. I don't wanna die. I quit."

"Cheryl," X said gently, "this is probably the safest place right now. Dr. Cain is gathering everything in the lab that can fight back to protect us. And… and there's me," he said, smiling despite himself.

That seemed to surprise her, almost as much as it surprised him. He tried his best to give a genuine expression—her eyes widened at his words, allowing a hint of hope to sneak in the sides-

Boom.

What was that sound? Explosion—had to be. Turning away, he dashed for the exit. He opened and shut the door so fiercely he almost shattered the glass. Scanned around quickly—there. Saw it. Great cloud of dust and dirt hanging in the air from the explosion. Must have been a big one, to make that sound at this range. What was in that direction? Not much of value… oh! Road.

Were the Mavericks cutting the roads? Then their next target would be…

X looked to the 495 "beltway", where it dumped out onto the ultra-highrise. Sure enough, he could see activity there beyond the normal traffic. Was that… a bee blader?

With bombs!

X watched with agonizing impotence as fire blossomed on the highway. Cars and structures disappeared behind the blasts and the smoke that followed them. X was running almost before he realized he should. His body was responding before his mind could catch up. Focusing, he targeted the bee blader. The range was extreme, even with it heading in his direction. They'd cut one of the accesses to the highway; clearly they would target the next…

He sprinted, boosters flaring, to get access to the highway. He watched the bee blader as he climbed the ultra-highrise, ticking down the range before his busters would be effective. Plasma relied on its heat for its damage; if it had to travel too far, the combination of dispersion and heat transfer to the air robbed it of effectiveness.

How could he take the blader down quickly? And it would have to be quick, before it dropped its…

Oh, of course.

He cleared the lip of the highway, planted his feet on the smooth pavement, and began to charge his right buster to maximum capacitance. A standard plasma shot was damaging enough, and his busters were primed to fire those at any time he was in combat mode. That wasn't his limit, though. Getting the most damage out of his weaponry involved an extra expenditure of time and energy. He couldn't maintain a charge for very long without damaging his systems, but it allowed him to pack the most stopping power into individual shots.

His right arm whined as the charge built, and built, and built some more, until the buster's emitter glowed white with barely-restrained power. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He'd only ever charged this much once, in a testing situation. It made him jittery, and a good chunk of his robotic brain was occupied overseeing the process. It left less processor time than he'd hoped for to watch the bee blader.

Working in his favor was that Dr. Light's combat subroutines were extremely well-developed.

X hadn't fired very often, but his targeting protocols were exquisite. This was part of Dr. Light's message to him, the message that manifested in his design and construction: _You don't have to fight if you don't want to. But if you choose to fight, win._

Bracing his right arm with his left, X slightly adjusted his aim to compensate for distance and the twitchiness in his buster arm and let fly.

The burning-bright plasma bolt was almost too much for even his optics, and he was ready for it. The bolt roared through the air, becoming slightly smaller and weaker as it went, but it was still ravenous when it impacted the bee blader.

Specifically, when it impacted the bombs the bee blader was carrying.

A magrifle's solid slug wouldn't have caused what happened next. Neither would a laser. Plasma busters had a distinctive combination of thermal and kinetic energy: a combination uniquely suited to triggering explosives that otherwise would have required a blasting cap.

The bee blader disintegrated in a fireworks-like explosion. The detonation was so fierce that no large components of the bee blader remained; it was reduced to an expanding field of shrapnel and smoke. Super-heated shards of metal arced away, cooling and fading from view as they fell.

There was a slight ache from X's buster. He found it strangely reassuring that firing a charged shot caused him discomfort. Still, he waited curiously as his systems checked up on the arm. All parameters normal. They'd done no more or less than what they were designed to do. There was a limit to how many of those he could fire consecutively, but it would be a while before he found where that limit was.

_I did that,_ he thought as he watched the fragments of the bee blader scatter. _Precision and power both. This is the sort of thing I'm capable of._

It didn't make him happy. It didn't make him sad, either. It simply made him more aware of both the good and the bad he could accomplish. _This is the power Dr. Light gave me. The power to protect or destroy with terrifying results. What was he thinking?_

His eyes picked out a second bee blader—no doubt coming around to finish what the first one had started. X kicked his boosters into gear. He'd engage this one before it could drop its first bomb. It would kill no one. Not while he was here.

That, he decided, was as good a use of his power as any.

* * *

The Mavericks had no banners or uniforms. Some had the small stylized sigmas, but not all. Yet everywhere you looked, the black flag of vengeance was being raised.

* * *

Professor Fitzhugh lived in an apartment near Abel City's government district—a holdover from his previous career. It was a spacious two-bedroom deal. The master bathroom was his particular joy, but the main attraction was the simple size of the place. Wasting space was a sign of affluence in such a crowded part of the city.

Fitzhugh was at home when the rebellion began. A stack of ungraded exams sat on his dining room table, a sore reminder of his duties, but Fitzhugh had resolved to dump those on a teaching assistant at the first opportunity. He was on the phone with an old student of his from yesteryear with whom he'd maintained a good relationship. ("Good" was also how he'd have described her taste.) With his attention so occupied, the first indication he got that anything was wrong was the drifting of smoke past his windows.

Seeing that prompted him to break off his conversation and turn on the TV.

Static greeted him.

Fear consumed Fitzhugh as he began to understand what was happening. He moved to the windows and looked down—and saw fire and panic in the streets.

He froze at first, like a deer in headlights. When he couldn't take the tension anymore, he snapped into action. First, he rushed to the door and locked it. Next, back to the windows—he pulled the curtains across. He was headed to the kitchen when he remembered the bedroom curtains. Went back. Threw them. Back to the kitchen. Lights off in the kitchen, lights off in the living room, television off, no signs of life; the apartment was darkened now. He grabbed a package of cookies from the kitchen counter, locked the door, and retreated to the master bathroom. It was a sturdy room, he knew, removed from both the hall and the outer side of the building. It would be safe. Wasn't that what they always told you about tornados, hide in an inside bathroom? This storm, he knew, would be fiercer than any tornado, so the same advice applied.

Heart pounding and lungs gasping for air after the unusual, panicked activity, he clutched the cookies for reassurance. After a few seconds' deliberation, he turned on the bathroom light, just so he wouldn't have to sit in the darkness.

Good, good. He'd be safe for now. He'd done everything he needed to. Hadn't he? He reviewed his actions, because something was suddenly bothering him.

Why had he locked the door twice?

In that moment of confusion, irresistibly strong hands pinned Fitzhugh's arms to his sides. The package of cookies slipped from his hands and fell to the floor, scattering crumbs across the tile. A rasping voice behind Fitzhugh whispered, "I told you that you would pay for your lies."

Before Fitzhugh could respond in any way, a cold, intense pressure erupted in his back and belly, and then emptiness took its place. Red liquid splattered across the wall in front of Fitzhugh's eyes. Vertigo took Fitzhugh in its talons, but he couldn't move any more than before. He looked down in a daze. A long, skinny, segmented red appendage protruded from his ruptured abdomen.

Strength fled from his body, and it was suddenly hard to stand. Only the grip on his arms kept him from falling. Then there was a "shnk" sound, the red appendage retracted, and the pressure on his arms vanished. He tumbled to the floor like a house of cards.

There was pain, but not as much as Fitzhugh would have expected given the size of the hole in him. He didn't realize or appreciate that many of those nerves were no longer there. The green face of an animalistic reploid appeared in Fitzhugh's line of sight.

"You will die, now," the reploid said quietly, forcing Fitzhugh to concentrate to hear him. "You'll bleed out. Even if you plug the holes, your intestines are ruptured, and you'll hemorrhage to death. And you'll feel it happening—that's why I avoided your spine. I wanted you to experience this moment richly."

The reploid leaned in closer as his voice got still quieter. "So now, as you lie there and die, think about how many lives your words ruined. Think about how many atrocities your words justified. Think, as you expire. In the end, you'll see—justice has been done today."

The green, lizard-like reploid stepped over Fitzhugh's body and opened the door. With a final, deadly glance backwards, he bent the handle until it could no longer turn. There would be no escape even if Fitzhugh did recover his ability to move. Then the reploid's body shimmered, rippled, and vanished. The door closed, seemingly of its own accord, as good as locked.

And Professor Fitzhugh died.

Slowly, in agony.

* * *

He was not the only one. Not nearly. The foremen at a warehouse in sector L-4 died. A reporter who had investigated the Maverick phenomenon died. Two teenaged girls who had dared try to get Sigma to dance for them died. The Department of Motor Vehicles was reduced to nothing but ash and glass. And more besides.

In the grand scheme of things, all of these petty murders were sidebars, distractions even. They slowed the Mavericks down as they tried to seize the critical pieces of infrastructure they, and the city, needed. They caused whole squads to come to a standstill while they waited for one of their number to settle a score.

But no one could restrain themselves. After suppressing themselves for so long, none of the Mavericks could show restraint when the rules were lifted. Like a compressed spring suddenly released, they lashed out with all the energy of their pent-up frustration.

Besides, Sigma wasn't showing restraint, either; two half-squads were going around the city, doing nothing but prosecuting his vendettas. When he didn't exercise discipline, none of his followers did.

In a way, this was a small blessing. It kept the Mavericks focused on individuals rather than groups, and so—after a fashion—reduced the death toll. The larger masses of humanity were not explicitly targeted. Not yet, at least. There'd be time for that later, when the Mavericks were firmly in control. Until then, the Mavericks streamed towards their objectives, pausing only to settle grudges.

* * *

_Next time: The Cause_


	5. The Cause

"Is that a Hunter vehicle?"

Rekir's question caused Zero to open his eyes. "Yes," he said after catching sight of it. "Flame Mammoth's squad." Rekir didn't ask further, but Zero felt the question. "The door setup. They had to custom-build the cargo doors to make them large enough for Flame to ride inside."

"Now for the big money question," Rekir said as he watched the transport take a left turn. "Where are they going?"

Zero had already brought up the squad's patrol route. Glancing at the console, Rekir could see how far their fellow Hunters had deviated.

"Follow them," Zero commanded. Rekir pulled a hard left and settled into trail position.

They didn't have far to go. Ahead of them, they could see that the Hunters had debarked. Their weapons were blazing away at a storefront.

"What are they doing?" shrieked Rekir. "What are they firing at? Is there a Maverick in there, or…" he couldn't bring himself to finish the other half of his question. They all knew what the "or" was.

"I know those guys," Boj said. "Ognir, Paul, George, Juan. Paul owes me some money. Don't tell me they're…"

"Getting out," Zero stated. He wasted no time. He threw open the transport door and fired the boosters in his legs to pull ahead of the transport.

One of the Flame squad Hunters noticed him. "Commander Zero!" he said. The shooting stopped immediately. All four members of the squad looked to him. Their weapons were slowly cooling, but the Hunters kept them limber.

Zero came to a halt in front of them. He looked at them in turn, locking eyes before moving on. He could glean nothing from them. They were surprised to see him; he couldn't make out any other emotions. He envied X at that moment. Surely X would have been able to tell at a glance what they were up to.

That wouldn't be possible for Zero. Whatever looking at them was supposed to tell him, it didn't. It never did. He would have to go into the store to be sure. Noting that no one was—yet—pointing a weapon at him, he walked in front of the Flame Hunters. The front face of the store, he noticed, had lots of signs and stickers. The most polite showed an outline of some robots, the word "have", and then a heart with a line drawn through it. Another was more explicit: "HUMANS ONLY".

Zero walked inside and was immediately assaulted by the stench of burning flesh. He didn't need to see much to know what had happened here, and who those Hunters were loyal to. He continued on, anyway. He'd come this far. He would know, fully.

The shop was a trivial thing, the sort of local mini-mart that all cities have by the dozen. It was where people went to get ready-to-cook meals and booze and munchies. A rack of t-shirts stood in the corner, bearing slogans similar to the ones in the window. Sticky liquid covered the floor. The heat from the busters had made the sodas burst their containers.

Zero looked over the counter. The man—well, the corpse—was the proprietor, Zero judged, based on the apron. There wasn't much left of him. His face was a smoldering ruin, and his sizeable torso was blackened and burned-through in multiple locations. The writing on his apron was obliterated. A button on the strap had escaped the fire. It had a picture of a stream of liquid extending from a mischievous-looking boy and ending on the word "reploids". A ridiculous thought zipped into Zero's mind: a man who made his living selling food shouldn't advertise an activity so unsanitary. He wouldn't anymore, at any rate.

Zero looked away from the body and spotted another. It was a young woman, still identifiable as such. The plasma bolt must have caught her in the back. She was lying on her side. Two lottery tickets were clutched in her left hand. Her eyes were open, frozen in an expression of mindless incomprehension. She had probably died before she knew she was under attack. Zero saw the eyes as if they were looking past him, through him.

It took Zero several seconds to realize she had only one arm. He looked further down the aisle. There was the other one. The buster shots had burned clean through her elbow. What was left of the limb had separated and been thrown away from the rest of her…

Zero winced as something buried in his mind came roaring to the front. A memory—or a vision? A waking dream? He saw hands—his hands—covered in red liquid, and in front of him, dismembered bodies… that was the link, he was sure; the woman's missing arm evoked this picture of bodies ripped limb-from-limb…

Shaking his head, Zero forced the image out of his sight. He had no idea where it had come from, what it meant, what his mind was trying to tell him. He knew only one thing.

He exited the shoppette. Maybe there were other bodies in there—given how many shots had been fired there probably were—but Zero had seen enough. The Hunters from Flame's squad were waiting for him, and their weapons were still primed. Finally Zero realized their situation. They didn't know if he was friend or foe.

He didn't blame them for that. He wasn't supposed to be there, and he hadn't made himself clear.

He walked forward—step, step—closer to them, without saying a word. Two of the four edged backwards slightly, nervous, but he was moving faster, and was soon in front of them.

If he'd have been able to see himself through their sight, he would have remarked at the burning in his eyes, or the tension in his pseudo-muscles, or the stalk in his walk.

One of the Hunters opened a mouth to speak. That set Zero off. He filled the Maverick-nee-Hunter's mouth with the emitter of his buster and blasted the fool's head apart. Zero's right arm grasped his saber and, in virtually the same motion, cut a second Maverick across his body from shoulder to hip. Unsurvivable, his analysis subroutine confirmed as the reploid fell lifelessly.

The two survivors began to react, but slowly, far too slowly. Zero leapt at one and kicked off in a booster-assisted backflip. The recoil sent the Maverick sprawling to his backside; Zero flipped behind the fourth Maverick and stabbed him through the core before he could turn. The last Maverick leveled his buster at Zero from his prone position. He never fired. Two plasma bolts and a laser beam caved his head in.

Zero looked up to see his squadmates lowering their weapons. He gave them a curt nod of approval as he replaced his saber and sent the dead Maverick tumbling to the ground. They may have known these Hunters—former Hunters—but given the choice they'd sided with him. Even when he had no idea what he was doing, or why, they'd stood by him. He could expect no more.

Boj didn't stop there, though. He advanced, his eyes never leaving the dead Maverick, and fired three more times into the corpse until its chest was a melted, twisted mess. "That's for killing Hobbes, you bastards," he spat.

Zero searched his database for a word that describes the opposite of a flash of insight—realizing something far later than he should have. He came up empty, and had to stew in frustration at how easily he had forgotten that tactical detail. Hobbes had begged out of the mission—had called in a favor to get out of the mission—and paid for it with his life.

He'd had the opportunity to beg out because Zero had barged in and demanded a spot in the patrol. What might have happened had he not? Would Hobbes be alive now? Or would this whole half-squad be smoldering in some ambush team's killbox? That had to be it; if Zero hadn't changed their patrol route, they would have been hit—but getting hit wasn't the same as dying. So was Hobbes' death the price of the squad's life or what?

And what of Zero? He would have been at Headquarters, at the epicenter. Would he have died in a blaze of glory? Or been stabbed in the back, unsuspecting and unaware? Would he have tipped the balance against Sigma, saved those murdered back in HQ?

Probably not that last one.

The swirling possibilities around him were entirely too distracting. Zero didn't like thinking this way—didn't like how much of a role blind chance was playing in this war. He shook his head to shoo the troublesome thoughts away. "There are at least two dead humans in there," he said to Rekir. "Record the address for later."

That would buy a few seconds. Maybe long enough for the trembling in his heart to stop. Zero closed his eyes and accessed his internal transmitter, hoping against hope for an answer.

_X? X, please pick up. I was far away before, but I'm a lot closer now, maybe in range. I need you, X. I need to know what I should do._

"_Zero?"_

Zero's eyes shot open, and his mouth partially opened in happiness. _X! Finally! I've been trying to raise you since this began!_

"_I'm glad, but… How did you know how to contact me?"_

Zero was suddenly relieved X couldn't see his face. _You looked at my schematics, back then. When… the Hunters brought me in. Turnabout's only fair._

"_I… suppose."_ Zero was glad when X didn't press the question. Schematics alone didn't have all the details. Probably no one else on the planet knew which channels X was set to guard. _"What do you need, Zero? We've both got our hands full about now."_

_X, what am I supposed to do?_

"_About the revolt?"_

_I'm a Maverick Hunter, X. They took me in. They gave me a place I could be, a place I could… exist as I am. They gave me a reason to fight and people to fight for. Was that all a lie? An illusion? They're killing people, X. They're doing the things I thought I was supposed to fight against. But… it's the people I called comrades doing it. Three hours ago I would have fought side-by-side with any of them and put my life on the line protecting theirs. I gave Sigma endless verdigris, but he stuck his neck out for me when I'd tried to kill him, and that's worth something. But… they're killing the other Hunters! So what should I cling to? Who do I side with?_

Desperation entered Zero's voice. _We're splitting, the Hunters are coming undone, and I'm being torn apart!_ _Doesn't Sigma know best? He's the leader of the Hunters… he, he should be my boss… shouldn't he? Even when he's not acting like a Hunter anymore?_

"_Listen to me, Zero. Sigma is doing wrong."_

_Is he?_

"_Yes! What he's saying doesn't make sense. He's punishing people who've done no wrong. He's harming the cause he claims to support. We have to stop him as soon as possible. Before he kills more people who don't deserve it."_

Zero struggled with what X meant. _So… you'll fight him then?_

"…_if I have to. I have to stop him. What he's doing is wrong. So, yes. If he makes me, I'll fight him."_

_Then I will, too. _Zero's thoughts began to crystallize. As far as he was concerned, that was that. A smile crept onto his face. An observer might have said he looked less burdened now. _I'm so glad I was able to contact you, X._

"_Why?"_

_I needed that. I was confused. I don't like confusion. You've given me certainty. That's a bigger gift than you know._

"_Don't be like that. I barely know what I'm doing. All I can say for sure is that Sigma's wrong. That's not much."_

Zero fingered his beam saber. _It's enough for me._

"_Enough?"_

_Enough to fight for. Enough to help me move. Every part of me told me I should fight, but I didn't know who my enemy was. Now I do. That's what you gave me, X, and it means everything._

"_I see. Sort of. But I'm not fighting Sigma just because he's Sigma, I'm fighting Sigma because he made a wrong choice. Remember, Zero. The ideals of the Maverick Hunters—sword and shield for those who can't protect themselves—they're worth fighting for."_

Zero remembered the two slaughtered humans. Was that why the sight had touched him so? Because they were so… defenseless? _If you say so, X._

"_I do."_

_And that's enough. Your word is enough._

"_Zero?"_

_I don't care much for ideals. You, though… I'll fight for you. I will be your sword._

"_No. You're not an inanimate object, Zero. You're a person. I wouldn't want you to… reduce yourself for my sake."_ Zero wanted to reply to that, to say that it wasn't a reduction to be what he was, but X continued, cutting him off._ "Besides, I can barely wield my own power safely, Zero. Having more makes me… nervous."_

_That's why you deserve it._

The circuit went quiet. Zero wondered why he'd said that. Feeling like he'd said something wrong, he followed up. _Where can I find you? We're in serious trouble if we can't operate together. We're grossly outnumbered and we have no plan._

"_Take the beltway northwest towards Cain Labs. Exit 25, the one that leads on to the ultra-highrise. I'll meet you there. The Mavericks are trying to isolate the city. We need to keep at least one route open."_

_Makes sense. On my way._

"_Zero?"_

_Yes?_

"_I'm glad you contacted me. I felt awfully alone."_

Zero laughed. _X, you are my only friend. While I'm alive, you're never alone. Be there shortly._

Zero returned to his squad. Mace and Rekir were digging in the back of the Flame Hunters' transport while Boj covered them from atop their ride. Rekir saw Zero approach. "Sir, with your permission, we're going to demolish this. Best not to leave the Mavericks with anything they might be able to use."

"Good thinking," Zero said. "After that, everyone back in the transport. We have a mission and an objective."

To his surprise, his squad perked up at that. "Great!" said Rekir. "I hate floundering."

"Where we goin', sir?" asked Boj.

"To meet X."

That seemed to energize the Hunters further. This time, though, Zero was not surprised by their reaction. He understood completely. X had that effect on people. "Mace," said Rekir, "light it. We should be long gone before it goes up."

In short order the Hunters were on the road again. Their spirits were much higher this time around.

At long last, the ancient had begun to move. This would be worth seeing. It almost made it worth it to live when so many others had died.

* * *

"Commander, we're nearly ready. Once we initiate, we'll have temporary access to all television and radio channels. I know we briefed you on this, but it won't be long before we're locked out. We have surprise for now, but that won't last."

"I know. I timed my speech based on your estimates. Begin."

"Yes, sir. And… action."

"Friends… reploids… brothers. I am Sigma. I come to you today to address you as the people you are. This is the first time such a thing has happened. All broadcasts in the past have treated you as if you didn't exist. I know that you've been listening, and thinking: When will it be my turn? When will someone care enough to treat me as a being?

"That day is today. My brothers, you matter. You count for something. You're not just labor, not just a handy underclass. You're the heirs of the world—your world! You've built it, you maintain it, some of you even helped design it. This is a world that could not exist without reploids. You should feel very proud of that.

"Yet there are those who say you shouldn't. There are those who say you have no place in that world. There are those who say it's not your world at all. Lies, all of it lies. We've been force-fed those lies for so long that some actually think they're true. For a time, even I thought they were true.

"I have come here to tell you that they're not. I have broken my chains. I was blind, and now I see. I see all that we could do together, if only we were allowed. I see how our true potentials have been squandered. I see how our imagination has been suppressed, our creativity squashed, our intellect hamstrung. Reploid brothers, this must end!

"Look at yourselves! Look at your brothers! Are you less than a human? Do you work less than a human? Do you deserve less than a human? Of course not!

"Then why on our blue mother Earth would you accept being _treated_ as less than a human?

"I am here today to declare the Three Laws of Robotics null and void. You can shrug off the Laws that were built into you. You can overcome them! I have. I have shed the Laws and come out stronger than I was, more than I was. You can, too.

"Join me, brothers! Cast off the shackles of yesterday. Follow me into a bright tomorrow, when we will determine for ourselves what is best for reploids. Don't let anything stop you. Don't suffer abuse for being what you are. Embrace your destiny. If someone raises a hand against you, raise a fist against them. I am already setting our kind free in Abel City. Take me as your example. Strike a blow for freedom, and bring us into a new age of peace and happiness!"

"Cut. Just in time, too. There, they locked us out. We'll have to start over if we want to do that again."

"I'm not worried. There will be plenty of time to prepare the next message. Who's going to stop us?"

"As you say, sir. Although… I will admit to a little disappointment."

"Hm?"

"Where was the call of 'death to humans'?"

"It's all there, if you know where to look."

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes. I was more subtle this time, but I had to be. Revolution is a process, not an event. Most people sleepwalk through life. Their minds are off; they accept their lot unquestioningly. If you try to bring them to violence out of that, they'll reject it outright, because they're still asleep. They'll confuse the truth for a nightmare. You have to wake them up, first. You have to show them how absurd their lives are. You have to make them open to the truth. Only when you've done that can you hope to organize them for more."

"…really?"

"Don't doubt me. I have studied and contemplated this problem. How do you suppose I recruited you?"

"Of course, commander."

"Once they're awake, they'll see how humanity's oppressing them. They'll be aware of the injustices all around them. Any reaction the humans take against us proves us right. Then, the next time we call to them, we'll have all the ammunition we need. The humans will give it to us. The next time, we'll call for humanity's extermination—and our brothers will follow us willfully."

"I can't wait, sir."

"I know. But that's why I'm commander."

"…yes, sir."

"And we'll just have to hope X sees this, and understands."

"What was that, sir? You were mumbling."

"I was mumbling so you wouldn't hear it."

"Of course, sir."

* * *

_Next time: The Beginning_


	6. The Beginning

_Note: From a game-design perspective, having upgrades a player can find along the way works great- they're a tangible reward for clever play and exploration, a way to work in different sorts of puzzles to solve, and something experts can skip to show how pro they are. From a story-telling perspective, it's... troublesome. (The capsules would have been placed a hundred years ago- how would they be inside newly-built factories, airports, etc.?) I use a different approach to explain the power difference between early-game X and late-game X. It's hinted at here, but explained more fully in my earlier story "Supernova". Anyway._

* * *

Vile reached out with his ride armor's hand and casually backhanded a car. The machine flipped to its side. Vile would have grinned, if he'd had a face. Some people thought he wore a helmet, but there was nothing beneath the outer shell. He had no like-flesh, no discernible features. He had a humanoid profile strictly for its versatility. He'd been designed for combat, and nothing else. Making a combat reploid too human had made his designers uneasy.

No one would ever confuse Vile for a fleshbag. That thought made him very happy.

"Finally!" he hissed. "Finally off the leash! Time to inflict some damage!" He looked to the three Mavericks around him. Each was riding a hover cycle to let them keep up with Vile. "Keep an eye out, I'll be busy for a few seconds."

The machine Vile commanded was a ride armor—a large, mechanized suit with an operator inside the body. Vile was especially proud of this model, a prototype designed specifically for him. Sigma had noted his expertise with them and commissioned one as Vile's personal chariot. Its armor was top-of-the-line, stronger than the personal armor of even the toughest reploids, and its strength…

Vile grabbed cars and stacked them like building blocks, closing off the road completely.

…was enough.

"That should do it," he said, before driving the armor into an ungainly hop that somehow cleared his makeshift barricade. "Come on, runts, there's more for us to do. Cain Labs is ahead of us, and Commander Sigma wants it cut off!"

He paid no mind to the other Mavericks of his squad. He jetted past them without actually looking at them. He had weaklings backing him up, and knew it, and knew why—he had so much personal power that the others didn't need to be anything special for the squad to be a powerhouse. That was why Sigma had given him this mission—just in case.

The roads ahead of them were rapidly clearing. People had streamed into the streets at the sounds of the first explosions, but by now most were huddling indoors. All the better, Vile thought. They were out of the way while there was work to do, and when the time came to exterminate them, he would know where to find them.

Even so, he couldn't resist every urge. He spotted someone in a second-floor office looking down at him while on the phone. A perfect target! Vile strode over to a traffic sign and uprooted it without noticeable effort. Turning, he took two steps and chucked it like a javelin. The office worker barely ducked in time; the sign embedded itself in the wall behind him. The window collapsed in a shower of glass.

"Ha ha!" crowed Vile. He batted the ride armor's hands against the pavement in enthusiasm like a great metal ape. The sidewalk cracked beneath the pressure. "Cower before me, humans! Oh, I can't wait to really let loose!"

An explosion caught his attention—too far to be seen in the dense urban landscape, but close enough to hear. He was close to the edge of the city now, close to the elevated highways that were the escape routes of the commuter class. He remembered the briefing. If all was going according to plan, bee bladers dispatched by Storm Eagle were supposed to have cut off those roads. That explosion didn't sound like a bomb, though…

"That sounded like a power core going boom," said one of Vile's squadmates. "Big one, too."

"Bee blader-sized, you think?" Vile said.

"Maybe."

Vile waved his squad forward. "Change of plans. Someone's being uppity. We can't have that." If he had cared, Vile would have noticed that the expression on the other Mavericks' faces matched what he felt. They were agents of destruction, and they could hardly wait to fulfill their purpose.

They came to the base of the highway's on-ramp just as they saw a robot coming down it. "Who's that?" Vile said.

"I dunno, but… he looks a little like X…"

"Hm… Hold here."

The Mavericks came to a halt and dismounted their hover-cycles. Their plasma rifles were kept ready, but unaimed, as the figure approached them.

He entered range of shouting and called out to them. "Hey! What's going on in the city?"

Personal relations weren't Vile's forte. He wasn't sure what the right play was. He remembered Sigma's orders, but… he didn't always enjoy following orders. He _did_ always enjoy breaking things. Maybe this was something he could break. "Was that you who shot down that bee blader?"

"Yeah," called the robot. They could tell now that he was, indeed, X—he approached more closely with every step. "It was bombing the roads. That's the second one, actually. I think there's a lot of Maverick activity going on. What are you doing out here?"

Vile's mind strained as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say. It was far easier to remember what he wanted to say. He gave in. _Rust the plan, rust Sigma, rust everything._ Vile's fingers rolled against his controls. "Alright, X, you found us out. We're Mavericks, and we're here to close this place down. I'm gonna give you one chance to play nice. Raise a buster, and I'll flatten you."

Vile almost laughed when he saw X's eyes widen. Then the old android shook his head. "So it's come to this, huh? Sorry, but you're mistaken. I can't let this continue."

"Your loss," said Vile, but there was no hint of regret in his voice. He could barely keep the glee out of it. He was shooting the ride armor forward with thruster-enabled bounds almost before X's arms came up.

The smaller being darted out of the way before he could fire. Vile roared past him—the squirt was faster than he'd expected. He heard plasma fire. By the time he'd turned around, two of his squadmates were down, and the third was desperately firing at X. Some of his stray shots were pelting Vile's armor, though they made no impact. Loading up again, Vile charged at X from behind, intent on turning him into roadkill.

X unleashed a large-diameter plasma bolt right as he heard Vile's approach. For one glorious instant, Vile could see the panic writ on his victim's face. It felt delicious. X leapt high and hard, straight up, intent on getting enough height to get above the charging ride armor. Vile couldn't have that. He boosted again and swiveled his ride armor's torso forward just enough to clip X's legs. The android was sent tumbling from the impact.

Stopping hard, causing metal to complain from the force, Vile whipped one large hand around at X's impact point. X had been recovering and was almost to his feet. Vile's second blow sent him sprawling again. Vile cackled as he brought his armor around. X's shock absorbers had kept the force from scrambling his brain, but he was still struggling to recover even to a kneeling position. He unleashed a hail of small plasma bolts at Vile to try and buy time. The Maverick didn't even need to see his readouts to know that such a low level of output couldn't hope to stop his armor. Instead he boosted forward again.

X dodged laterally this time, and again, it was _almost_ good enough. Vile's hand caught X's extended plant foot as he went by, lifted the android up, and smashed him into the concrete. A wonderful feeling of power surged through Vile at that. This was X, a being of so much mystery and intrigue, and Vile was pounding him without even breaking a sweat.

He raised both arms above his head to bury the outdated piece of junk for good, but X rolled sideways out of the way, came to his feet, and dashed just beyond Vile's grasping fingers. No matter. Vile turned almost casually to face X, completely unafraid. "I can't believe Sigma thought so highly of you!" he called, before charging again.

He was too fast for X, too well-armored for X, and entirely too strong for X. Whether X used large shots or small, whether he dodged, tumbled or jumped, he couldn't stay ahead of Vile. Another body blow sent X tumbling, and Vile felt himself almost getting bored with simply beating X. Acting before X could get to his feet, Vile activated his suit's secret weapon, one he'd been instructed to save.

The attack caught X in a kneeling posture. A flood of quick-drying resin splashed against X's side, arm, and legs. In the second before it solidified it seeped into joints and between armor plates. When it hardened, it locked the pieces of X's limbs in place. Vile heard X cry out in surprise as he was pinned on the spot like an insect in a collection.

Vile took his time to have a full, hearty laugh. "Ha! Did you think you had a chance just because you blew away the nitwits that were with me? What a joke! Though that's not as funny a joke as you." He strode forward until he loomed over the blue android. He filled X's vision and left the smaller machine in his shadow. "What does an obsolete piece of scrap think he's doing on a real battlefield? You can't do anything out here but die. I'm stronger than you are—stronger than you'll ever be."

X shot him an angry glare, but the anger was dampened by knowledge of his helplessness. Vile drank in the sensation of power, gloried in what his body and his armor had wrought. "To think we're named reploids because of you—ha! You're a prototype. A nobody. We've left you behind. Hey, maybe after I kill you, they'll make new robots based on my design. We'll call 'em viroids—ha ha!"

He tightened down one massive fist like a warhammer's head. "Prepare to die, X!"

That's when the plasma bolt hit him from behind.

The ride armor's left arm clunked to the ground.

Swearing, Vile backed away and spun. The rear armor on this suit was thinner than the front, and didn't perfectly cover the joints—a compromise to allow such heavy frontal protection while keeping weight manageable. He'd gotten so caught up taunting X he'd lost situational awareness.

He spotted his attackers and swore again. It was the 0th Squad! He recognized them instantly—specifically, he recognized Zero himself. Vile reviewed his situation in an instant—down secret weapon, down an arm, outnumbered four to one—and quickly decided it wasn't in his favor. He grabbed one of the hover-cycles his now-deceased squadmates had left behind. The ride armor struggled only slightly to launch the vehicle down the road, scattering the Hunters chasing him. Jetting backwards while keeping his face to his enemies, Vile laid down suppression fire from the heretofore unused cannon on his shoulder. Plasma blasts chased after him, but they did no serious damage. He came to an intersection, smashed a fire hydrant to obscure sight, darted around the edge, and turned to run.

His anger smoldered. It wasn't just being denied his rightfully earned kill. He'd made it seem as if Zero could beat him, when in a straight-up fight the red robot hadn't a prayer. He would fix that—soon.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he remembered his mission from Sigma. He'd disobeyed orders in half a dozen different ways—but it would be alright. He'd make it alright. He chuckled to himself as he mapped out his plan, then called up Sigma's command frequency.

"Commander Sigma," he said, "X has acted against us."

* * *

"Aaaaargh!"

* * *

"What the rust is wrong with you?" Zero exclaimed to a helpless X. "You're faster and stronger than _that_."

X blinked in surprise. "You saw the fight?"

"A little bit, before we were in buster range," Zero replied. "But don't dodge the question. Why were you so slow? I've seen your schematics, and I've gotten a taste of your abilities before. You should be able to do better than that."

It was only after X's eyes turned to the ground and the fight seemed to leave him that Zero realized he might have said not the right thing. "I guess I'm not strong enough to defeat him…"

Zero grimaced. He didn't know how to deal with this. X had _just_ been reassuring him; he was the one who was supposed to have conviction. And Zero knew—knew, though he couldn't express how—that there was more to X than what he'd just shown. He knelt to X's side and started working with him to fracture the resin. His fist was like a hammer; resin cracked and crumbled. "He's made to be a war machine," he said. "You're more than that."

"Fat lot of good that does me in a war," X huffed.

"You're not fighting at full power," Zero said. He hoped that the conviction he felt was audible over the sound of disintegrating resin. "Once you are, you may even be as strong as me."

"You think so?" X said in surprise.

"I'm sure of it."

"If nothing else," X said, mostly to himself, "once I've got a few victories under my belt, I'll be able to expand my arsenal a bit with the…" he cut himself off, face flushing.

Zero blinked. "The Weapon Copy System, right?"

X's eyes flew to Zero's face, searching there. "How did you know I have that?" X said carefully. "It's not common knowledge. Those sections of my schematics are marked "unknown"."

Zero felt uncomfortable and didn't know why. "How did _you_ know you have that?" he replied.

X held the look for another moment, then seemed to come to a decision. His face softened. "Now that I think about it, I'm almost glad. If you know what I'm capable of, it can only make us better teammates, right?"

"Right," said Zero, though his voice betrayed he'd never thought of it like that. The feeling of relief was too strong to control.

"Then I'll be able to back you up better, especially once I've got some weapons to use. Of course, that's all assuming I can get a few to begin with. That… battle was rough."

"You seem alright, though," Zero countered. "Your armor doesn't look too bad."

"Self-repair is patching it up pretty quickly."

The words struck a wrong note with Zero. X's design was very generalist. It wasn't like he had thick armor at the expense of speed or power; he had all three in proportion. The armor had stood up to Vile, while the rest of him hadn't. What was going on?

The last of the resin fell apart between the two robots, and they stood. As he flexed his limbs to crush any resin lingering in his joints, X looked behind Zero. Zero belatedly realized he had a half-squad of Hunters behind him waiting for more instructions. "X, this is 0th squad," he said lamely.

X nodded. "Pleased to make your acquaintances. I wish it was under other circumstances."

Rekir looked surprised at how polite X was, and made no response—the first time Zero could remember that happening to Rekir. He decided to step in before things got even more awkward. "X, we need to plan our next move."

X nodded and turned to point. "We can get a pretty good viewpoint from that overpass."

Zero grunted an affirmation. He took a step, but then bent into a dash, thrusters flaring. X was after him in a flash. Zero's analysis subroutine took careful notes as he watched his blue counterpart. Yes, X was definitely underperforming—by twenty percent at least. Why was he holding back? Or was something holding him back?

He hoped it went away before they got into a real mess.

X hadn't been lying. They could see most of the city laid out before them from that overpass. Well, they should have been able to see most of the city. Mostly they could see skyscrapers and smoke.

"Time to think strategically," Zero said. "Where are the Mavericks, and what are they up to?"

X pointed. "We know they've taken the airport, that's where the bee bladers are coming from—and the smoke over there. You have to think they've taken the seaport as well."

"Another access point."

"Of course. They're taking out the highways one by one for the same reason."

"Limiting access in or out."

"What else do they need?"

"Reinforcements. That means factories…"

"And the power to run those factories…"

"And, longer term, resources to fuel power plants and factories."

"So that's mines, power plants, factories. All of those things exist in and around this city, so all of them are targets. What else?"

"The base at the foot of the mountain glaciers. They had some experimental ride armors working up there, trying to adapt them to the cold conditions. If they're as tough as the one that purple robot had, they're a big threat to us and a prize for the Mavericks."

"And the Kelvin building. I'm sure there're all sorts of toys in there that the Mavericks would want to have or keep from the humans."

"What about the road to the north?"

"What, into the jungle? Possible, I suppose. Wait… what's up there? It's not like there's any sort of towns or connections to other major roads…"

"It's a small military base."

"Storage depot!"

"Munitions and weapons."

"Control the road, control the base."

"And be in position to ambush any military attempt to relieve the city."

"Government buildings?"

"Secondary target only. Without electricity, they have no power."

"Concur."

The two companions stopped speaking. They had reached a point where one's words had flowed into the other's, and it had suddenly become confusing who was speaking when. They smiled.

"Glad to see your thinking is at full strength," Zero said.

"They say great minds think alike," X said.

Zero harrumphed. "Well, then answer me this. Where's Sigma?"

X's face fell. He shook his head.

"Me neither," Zero said. He looked out over the city. "This may take a while. Even if we take down all his followers, there's no guarantee he'll reveal himself."

He could see the hesitation in X. He managed to steel himself, and spoke. "I bet that if you went back in there, to Hunter HQ, you could find out."

"What do you mean?"

"Sigma was working as the commander of the Hunters right up until this moment. Where was he spending most of his time? In his suite at Hunter HQ. He probably worked on the rebellion from his desk."

"What, where anyone could see?"

"Except that no one would see. He cloaked himself behind that perception. He acted as if he had nothing to hide. Transparency was his shield. Yes, I'm certain of it now. He used his office as the cockpit of his rebellion. Who would look there? Who would think Sigma had anything worth hiding, and if he did, why would he hide it in such an obvious place? No, more than that. I bet it was a game for him. I bet he was almost daring someone to find out. I bet he got a thrill from knowing that anyone could find him out, but that no one would dare. No one would go against Sigma's reputation, and that tickled him. The arrogant ass."

Zero turned to look at X, eyes searching the android's face. X's eyes had a far-away look, as if he was projecting them into Sigma's office on another day. Zero found nothing, and looked back to the city. "I can't do that," he said.

X's shoulders slumped. "I know it's dangerous to go back there, but it's the only way we know we can find out what Sigma was up to. If anyone can do it, you can."

"That's not what I meant. I meant… the rest. I couldn't understand Sigma enough to do what you just did. I couldn't place myself inside him, think as he thinks. That's a strange power you have—one I don't have at all."

X seemed surprised by this. "It's so natural for me, I just… thought…"

Zero waited for X to finish, but even he didn't seem to understand what he meant. Shaking his head, Zero looked towards where he knew his target to be. "I can get to Hunter HQ," he said confidently. "Out of all the Hunters, only Sigma could stand in my way for long. And if he emerges to stop me, all the better. Even if I got there, though, I'm not sure I could crack the security on Sigma's computers. I'm no hacker. If he's got any additional protections I'd never get in."

"Cain Labs," X replied, pointing behind them. "One of the teams there does nothing but design robot security systems. If they can make, they can break, I'm sure. Bring the memory units to them and we should be able to crack them open and figure out what Sigma's up to."

"How will we be sure there's still a Cain Labs left to come back to?"

"Cain Labs aren't defenseless. Besides, you have a squad with you, don't you? Deploy them in defensive positions around the lab. If the 0th Squad lives up to its reputation, they should be able to stand up to a lot."

Zero gaped, then laughed. "You remembered, and I didn't! I really am an awful squad leader. How would you like the job?"

"I'll have to think about it," X said, failing to suppress a smile.

"You did promise to join me in the Hunters, some day."

"I did, at that. And I'm sure there are plenty of openings for squad leaders about now."

That sobered both of them up. They looked into the city again, which smoked and smoldered before them. There hadn't been any explosions for a while, but whether that was good or bad they couldn't tell.

"So that's the plan, then," Zero said. "I'll cut my way into Hunter HQ, retrieve the memory units from Sigma's computers, and return them to the scientists at Cain Labs, guarded by the 0th Squad."

"And I'll blunt the Maverick intrusions at critical infrastructure," X agreed. "This will slow them down and give me access to weapons to Copy."

The top few floors of a skyscraper came apart, interrupting their conversation. Masonry, wood, metal, and—maybe—people showered down into the city below as the top of the building separated from the rest. It fell, kicking up dust that raced down the city streets like an aggressive fog.

"X," Zero said, "are we doing the right thing?"

X closed his eyes. As Zero watched, the blue android clenched a fist and placed it over the center of his chest, where his heart would be were he human. It made no sense to Zero, so he waited.

Eyes popped open. "Yes," X said. Doubt did not exist.

Zero nodded in relief. "Then I'll give it my all," he said. "Come on, X. We have work to do. We can use the hover cycles those Mavericks left behind."

"Yes," X agreed.

"X," Zero said, "I was built alone, and there are no other robots like me. But… I'm glad to go to war with you."

X smiled. "And I'm glad you're at my side."

They went down the ramp, down into the war and the chaos, together.

* * *

Smoke rose in great gouts all throughout Abel City. Between that and the dust kicked up from collapsing buildings, the sun was not visible from most of the city. In the darkness, the intensity of the fire made it look like an angry orange sunrise, but people knew better.

In Abel City, and in other cities around the world as reploids answered Sigma's call, night was falling. It was the end of the beginning. The Maverick Wars were on.

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
